


Prodigal Mountie

by amaruuk



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, past betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22696597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: (What if Vecchio hadnotpulled the trigger?  What if Fraser had leapt onto the train unscathed and fled with Victoria?  And what if, eventually, Fraser had come back?  This story draws on first and second series only.)"But–" He took a deep breath. "If you had shot her, Ray, I doubt I could have forgiven you. No matter what she did. To either of us."Lips pressed into a tiny, dark smile, Vecchio said, "Wasn'therI almost shot.""Ah." And then Fraser smiled, too; the same sort of smile. "Well, in that case, maybe I could have.""It would have been one way of saving you from yourself," Vecchio pointed out precisely.  "You'd still be a Mountie, Fraser. Your record would be clean." He pursed his lips. "We'd still be friends.""Yes." Fraser folded both hands around the mug. He needed its warmth. "Thatwouldbe presuming you hadn't killed me?"
Relationships: Benton Fraser/Ray Vecchio
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	Prodigal Mountie

Their voices carried with crystal clarity on a stinging breeze. Through the needled branches of a slender fir (the sort, he had noted without amusement, called "fraser"), he watched them. They had arrived early, the world still lipstick-smeared with the mauve-orange kiss of dawn. The wolf, tongue hanging out, mouth wide in a toothy grin of purest bliss, dolphined through the newly fallen snow; the man, lanky and tall, swathed in throat-to-ankle coat, knitted cap, a sheep's worth of woolen scarf, and heavy gloves, strode behind at a more sedate pace, his non-stop grumbling, to the practiced ear, more perfunctory than heartfelt.

It was the wolf who determined where they would take up position, signaling its preference by skidding round and, with hind end in the air and front paws extended challengingly, issuing a series of yaps.

"All right, all right," the man conceded good-naturedly, and proceeded to form loosely packed snowballs between his hands. Every few seconds the wolf would growl or bark, and every few seconds the man would respond with a snappy: "Hold your horses!" or "Keep your britches on, will you?"

From his vantage point, the watcher half-smiled, an undefined yearning in the faint curve of his lips and the wistful slant of his brows. His eyes, achingly blue in a face blanched parchment white by the cold, glinted with regret. These two, man and wolf, had once provided the warmth of his world. Seeing them now was a bitter joy. They played, they laughed. They would not welcome him back. And it was his fault.

When the man's arsenal was ready, stacked eight strong at his feet in a tidy pyramid, his tone changed, becoming deeper and assuming a none too subtle menace. "Okay, you slacker," he growled. "Here comes the wind-up. It's Vecchio on the mound and he's going to strike you out!" Putting action to words, the man leaned back in the classic baseball pitcher's stance, rolled smoothly forward, then released the snowball high and wide of the wolf's body. "The Diefmeister swings!" Raymond Vecchio announced. "And he's going for it, he's going for it, and heeeee's _got_ it!"

Snow splashed across the wolf's muzzle as sharp teeth obliterated the soft mass. Before the animal had returned to the ground, the man lobbed another in its direction, this time far to the other side. Again, the wolf, writhing disjointedly mid-air, intercepted the pitch. After the fourth throw, the man shouted, "That's it–bases are loaded. Run it in, Dief!" To the watcher's amazement, the wolf took off, tail streaming behind. Making a sharp left turn every time the man counted a "base," the animal marked a four-point circuit around an imaginary playing field, its pace only increasing as it came down the last stretch. "And he's _home_!" Vecchio screamed. He jerked away as the wolf, bouncing on its hind legs like a Lippizaner, threatened him with snow-packed paws. "Don't you _dare_ jump up on me, you moron! That's a foul, remember? Go on, get out there." Vecchio caught the animal's muzzle in an affectionate hold. "You're up again."

Its tongue a ribbon of red against a background of white fur and white landscape, the wolf wheeled round and shot back toward the spot where all the activity had begun. Halfway there, it stopped, buried up to its withers in snow. Muzzle up, ears pricked, its eyes began to quarter the park.

The wind had changed.

"What is it, Dief?" Vecchio asked. One long-fingered hand smoothly unbuttoned an opening into the coat and slid inside. Tense green eyes tried to follow the wolf's line of sight.

Pulses leaping, the watcher marked the exact instant the wolf pinpointed his position. It was already moving, heedless of Vecchio's hissed caution, powerful, elongated strides taking it unerringly to this place of refuge. Rather than be flushed out, Benton Fraser stepped out from behind the fir tree. A staccato volley of barks greeted him. Vecchio's hand, empty, withdrew from beneath his coat.

Fraser braced his legs and leaned slightly forward to prepare himself for imminent collision. A second later his arms were filled with a roiling mass of overjoyed wolf. "How are you, Diefenbaker?"

An annoying wetness–at least in part from a promiscuously swiping tongue–began to freeze on his face. "Of course I've missed you."

As quickly as the wolf had arrived, it departed, racing back towards the other man.

Feeling suddenly exposed, Fraser drew himself up to his full height. It was not within his power to make this moment less painful for either of them. With considerable effort, he overcame the impulse to conceal his face beneath the brim of his hat.

Hands at his sides and his coat rebuttoned, Vecchio regarded him. There was nothing of welcome—nor, surprisingly of rejection—in his stance. That changed when Fraser started forward.

With Fraser's first step, Vecchio dropped down and scooped up a snowball. He flung it at Fraser, who hesitated for the space of a skipped heartbeat. The ball fell shy of him by a foot. He continued forward. Vecchio picked up another snowball, and another. Each he pitched in turn, his face impassive, his eyes as unreadable as slate, and each time the ball fell short of its target though the distance between them lessened. Clearly it was not Vecchio's aim or the power of his arm that was at fault.

When Fraser was six feet away, Vecchio hefted the last snowball in his hand, ignoring the wolf who sat at his feet and stared perplexedly up at him. Expecting that snowball in his face at any instant, Fraser came to a stop.

"Well, if it isn't Constable Fraser," Vecchio drawled. "How's your hammer hanging, man?" The vibrant warmth of his voice, so well remembered, was gone; he sounded unreachably distant.

"Hello, Ray." Fraser had to clear his throat. "And I'm not."

Vecchio smirked; it looked forced. "You're not, or it isn't?"

"I'm no longer RCMP."

Vecchio's eyes seemed to darken–or it may have been Fraser's imagination. "Booted you out, huh?"

"Yes."

"Too bad. Well—"

Quickly, Fraser asked, "How are you, Ray?"

Letting out a laugh that had nothing of amusement in it, Vecchio, said, "Oh, just great." His empty hand gestured toward the wolf. "Well, there's Dief. He's been waiting for you."

"Thank you for caring for him," Fraser said sincerely.

"Sure. What are friends for?" There should have been censure in those words; Fraser deserved it. But there was nothing; the words were meaningless, devoid of emotion. Vecchio glanced toward the road that bordered the park. The Riviera, mantled with the night's snow, two ovals cleared off the windshield and back window, stood loyally at the curb. That look said that he was now in a hurry to leave.

"I—" Fraser faltered at Vecchio's upraised hand.

"Good seeing you again, Fraser," Vecchio said with finality. "I gotta go."

"Ray—"

Turning toward the animal, Vecchio tapped its muzzle very gently. "You be a good wolf, Dief." With a soft smile that Fraser would have killed to call his own, he said, "You're finally going home." To Fraser he was more blunt. "Take care of him. You know, keep him out of Victoria's way. He really does hate hospitals."

"Ray, can't we—?"

"No, Fraser," Vecchio cut him short. "We can't. Have a nice life." He turned and began to stride across the whiteness, not even pausing as he flung the snowball out across the park. It slammed into the trunk of a sapling several yards away, exploding with the force of impact.

"Ray, I just want to talk," Fraser called after him.

"Your problem," Vecchio sang over his shoulder.

Fraser had not expected this. Anger, yes. Noisy recriminations, probably. But this icy rejection–he did not know how to deal with it. Vecchio was at the edge of the park now; in less than a minute he would be inside his car and gone. "Dief," Fraser said desperately. "You've got to stop him."

The wolf's eyes were alert and interested–and completely unfathomable.

"Please. I promise we'll talk later. Just—" The wolf sprang to its feet. Like a homing missile, it took off after Vecchio, every muscle of its body focused on reaching the man before he could depart. Taken aback to have been obeyed so readily, Fraser was a little slow to follow, slower still to catch up. He tried to run, but the snow, six or seven inches deep, reduced his progress to an ungainly shuffle.

A cry of outrage pierced the air. "Get out of there, you stupid wolf! Your feet are covered with snow!"

Diefenbaker's answering growl was audible even over the slogging noise of Fraser's progress.

"What the hell is this?" Vecchio demanded. "You turncoat, get out of my car!"

Breathing hard, Fraser stumbled to a halt against the passenger door of Vecchio's Buick. He grabbed the chrome handle and hung on tightly.

Vecchio snarled, "Call off your wolf, Fraser."

"Unlock the door and I will." Inwardly, he flinched before the cold fury in the other man's face.

"Yeah? The free taxi service expired eight months ago."

"I only want a few minutes, Ray."

"So what?" Two bright spots of color, whether from anger or cold or possibly even both, burned hot in his cheeks. "I want a unicorn with wings. Won't get it. I don't owe you any–"

"I know that," Fraser said quickly. "It's I who owe you. Please." Ominously silent, Vecchio just stared at him. "Please, Ray."

Vecchio closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. He said tiredly, "Get in the back, you mutt. You're melting on my upholstery."

The wolf pointedly gazed at the passenger door, where Fraser still stood.

"All _right_." Gloved hands held palm up, he promised, "I'll let him in, okay? Yes, I mean it." His breath whistled between his teeth in frustration. _"Now get off my seat, damn it!"_ As the wolf wriggled over the console and scrambled into the back, Vecchio commanded, "And give me the towel off the floor. _Thank_ you." He snapped the already sullied length of cloth from the wolf's teeth. "Traitor," he muttered, and scrubbed the seat clean and mostly dry. Inside at last, he pulled the driver's door shut and sat for a moment unmoving. The wolf made a strange whine-cum-growl sound. Vecchio scowled. "Yeah, yeah." He stretched out an arm and unlocked the passenger door.

Unhesitating, Fraser whipped off his hat and slid inside. With the Stetson balanced on his knees, he dragged the seat belt across his lap and buckled it down. Vecchio was at his least predictable when he was like this; it would not be out of character for him to change his mind and shove Fraser out onto the street, having honored his word in its strictest interpretation, but made furious for having been made to do so. At least strapped in place, Fraser would be difficult to dislodge.

Vecchio said tersely, "So, talk."

A sidelong glance told Fraser that his time was limited. "I—" But suddenly he could not think. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wished he could ask. Where to start?

"You said you wanted to talk." The ungracious tone of Vecchio's voice made it clear that he felt no obligation to listen.

How to explain to the man beside him that his presence alone had destroyed Fraser's ability to concentrate? How to make him believe that he had wanted to see him, to speak with him since that moment on the platform eight months ago? How to tell him that he had undone at least some of the damage that his association with Victoria Metcalf had wrought and was here now, at last, to make amends? How—?

"Fraser. If you don't come up with something to say in the next five seconds, I'm—"

"Coffee."

Vecchio craned his head around, his expression bordering on stupefaction. "You want to talk about coffee?"

Swallowing hard, Fraser said, "Let me buy you a coffee, Ray. And we'll talk."

"That'd be a first," Vecchio observed sardonically.

Fraser's fingers worried the brim of the Stetson, twisting the hat round and round. "Just thirty minutes," he implored.

"Coffee. Thirty minutes. You and me." Vecchio snorted rudely. "Oh, why not?" He started the car and launched it, like a bullet, onto the street. It hit a patch of ice, and the rear end fishtailed wildly before being brought back under control with total indifference on the part of the driver.

Teeth clenched, Fraser forced himself to watch the road, prepared to offer warning if not advice.

"Why'd they let you keep the hat?"

Fraser blinked, disoriented by the question. He cast Vecchio a quick, nervous glance. "What?"

"You're not a Mountie anymore, right? So why do you still have the hat?"

Completely at sea, this the last of all possible questions he might have anticipated, Fraser protested, "Anyone can own a Stetson, Ray."

"Really?" The car whipped round a corner and almost collided with a slow-moving pick-up truck. Despite his resolve, Fraser squeezed his eyes shut and clung to the elbow rest.

"Get out of the road, you idiot!" Vecchio shouted, swerving around the other vehicle and onto another strip of glare ice. The Riviera skidded sideways for an endless, heart-stopping five seconds, momentum carrying it straight toward the curb and the bank of newspaper vending machines stationed atop it. Vecchio waited until he could hook the front tire on a dry spot, relying on the back tire to follow suit. Miraculously, it did so, disaster was avoided, and the car roared at speed down the street.

A very few minutes later, the Buick lunged into a parking space in front of Joan's Place. Vecchio threw it into Park, switched off the engine, and stepped out onto the pavement. There was none of the slouching lack of haste about him that Fraser remembered; he found that he missed it.

At the door to the diner, Vecchio pointed a stern finger at the Welcome mat. Fraser froze, uncertain if the gesture was meant for him, and was grateful when Diefenbaker flopped down, expressing abandonment and longstanding habit both at once. Vecchio dragged the heavy glass door open, started forward, then stopped. Showing his teeth, he flagged Fraser ahead. The courtesy was not reassuring.

"Good Lord, Fraser!" It was Chris, their waitress. "You've finally come home."

"Yeah, the prodigal Mountie returns," Vecchio said mockingly. "Two coffees, Chris. And get this: _he's_ paying!"

"Fraser? Is that true?"

Flushing, Fraser made a small moue. "Sure."

"This booth okay?" Vecchio asked her, indicating one of many unoccupied alcoves.

"Whichever one your little heart desires, Detective," Chris said sweetly.

"If we're talking seating arrangements, this will do." Vecchio swooped across the vinyl-covered bench, bounced until he was comfortable, then sat impatiently and obviously waiting, elbows propped on the tabletop, facing Fraser. He stretched his wrist out of the coat sleeve and pointedly marked the time. "Thirty minutes. Go."

Setting his hat on the end of the bench beside him, Fraser sought something to say. This was not how he wished to conduct his first conversation in eight months with Ray Vecchio. He did not, however, seem to have an alternative. The Riviera, dark green, and with steam from melting snow rising off its hood, was visible through the storefront. Vecchio had never objected to his car as a topic of conversation. Seizing upon it before giving the thought full consideration, Fraser said, "This Riviera looks identical to the last one."

A transformation came over Vecchio. He sat straighter, his face hardened, and color touched his cheeks. "You heard about that?"

"Ah—yes." Fraser realized too late that he had stumbled onto treacherous ground. "About the explosion and Detective Gardino. I am sorry."

"How'd you find that out?" Vecchio asked in a deceptively controlled voice. "Like, it was in the Yukon Intelligencer or something?"

"Well, no— The focus there tends to be on local—"

"Someone told you?"

Fraser nodded. "Lieutenant Welsh. I asked him to—"

"You _spoke_ to Welsh?"

"Corresponded, actually. That is, I wrote to him and—"

"You—!" Vecchio's face twisted through a terrifying array of expressions before yielding to an unpleasant rictus. "You know, I used to think I'd get a postcard, maybe even a letter. Nothing much: how you and the little lady were getting on, a few words about the banks you'd robbed, how many of her former lovers you'd helped knock off–that kind of thing. _Maybe_ even a question or two about Dief, like was he still alive? Took me a while, but I finally remembered that _you're_ the guy who leaves town and all of a sudden his friends–even his _best_ friend–cease to exist. So what do I get? Nothing. Nada. And you're telling me that you and Welsh have been _pen-pals_?" His voice ended on a squeak of incandescent bitterness.

"Ray, I couldn't write to you."

"And why the hell not?"

"Because I didn't want to jeopardize your career any further."

Vecchio threw up his hands. "How could a measly postcard from you have made it any worse?"

"I knew Internal Affairs would continue to investigate you. I thought it a possibility that they would even seize your personal correspondence. They _would_ have taken a dim view of your hearing from me. You know that."

"Okay," Vecchio conceded rather ungraciously. "Let's say that's true." He leaned nearer. "But why wait six months to be sure that IA really meant it when they said the investigation was closed?"

"Six months?" Fraser croaked; his larynx seemed to have frozen.

"Yeah. Surely in all your letter-writing back and forth, Welsh mentioned that little fact way back when?"

Unintentionally revealing more than he might have liked, Fraser replied, stunned, "No, actually; that is, I learned only last week."

_"By the way, IA finally dropped their investigation. Vecchio was cleared. If you still want to come back, now might be a good time."_

Why had Welsh waited until now to tell him? Did he consider Fraser a bad influence? Did he fear that Internal Affairs would renew their interest in Vecchio? Why had he not—?

"Thank you kindly, Chris." Vecchio's voice seemed to come from a long way off. Fraser belatedly caught sight of the waitress's retreating back, two mugs and a carafe of coffee, a refilled sugar dispenser, and a small bowl heaped high with tubs of cream now on their table.

"So what if Welsh held out on you? Thought you'd be back way before now to collect Dief." Vecchio eyed him thoughtfully. "Or did Victoria object?"

Answering honestly, Fraser said, "She believed him dead; I thought it safer to let her continue to do so. He—Diefenbaker, I mean—looks well," he trailed off, sounding lame even to his own ears.

"Best veterinary care money can buy," Vecchio retorted. "So where is she? Your main squeeze? Or are you worried about her finding out about Dief?"

"No." Fraser scooped one of the plastic containers of cream out of the bowl and began to pry it open with clumsy fingers.

"What's that mean, 'no?'" Vecchio persisted. "Oh, wait–don't tell me." His words were heavy with sarcasm. "She didn't _leave_ you or anything, did she?"

Fraser said nothing.

Taking that as an affirmative, Vecchio said, "Jesus, Fraser, after all she put you through, you just let her go?"

Summoning a neutral expression, Fraser merely nodded. "She, um, she didn't ask my permission."

"When? When did this happen?"

"Nearly eight months ago." The coffee was scalding, even with two helpings of cream and two of sugar. He sipped it with caution; it had been a while since anything had been reintroduced to his stomach.

"Nearly eight months ago?! You've been _gone_ for eight months, Fraser!"

Acknowledging this with a flick of the brows, Fraser said calmly, "We traveled for ten days, heading north. After we reached Yellow Knife, she—" He paused. It was, however painful to admit, the truth. "She left me."

" _Man_." Vecchio shifted sideways and leaned back against the wall. "Man, I wish you were kidding." He produced a hiccup of empty laughter. "But you're not, are you? Jeez, Fraser, you would've been better off if I _had_ pulled the trigger."

Fraser did not understand. "What do you mean?"

"When you jumped on that train," Vecchio explained. "I'd just drawn a bead on her."

"But–" He took a deep breath. "If you had shot her, Ray, I doubt I could have forgiven you. No matter what she did. To either of us."

Lips pressed into a tiny, dark smile, Vecchio said, "Wasn't _her_ I almost shot."

"Ah." And then Fraser smiled, too; the same sort of smile. "Well, in that case, maybe I could have."

"It would have been one way of saving you from yourself," Vecchio pointed out precisely. "You'd still be a Mountie, Fraser. Your record would be clean." He pursed his lips. "We'd still be friends."

"Yes." Fraser folded both hands around the mug. He needed its warmth. "That _would_ be presuming you hadn't killed me?"

Green gaze wreathed with irony, Vecchio nodded. "That would be presuming that, yes." He took up his own mug and drank. "But you'd do it again, wouldn't you? Despite all that, all that she did, you wouldn't do anything differently. In fact, I bet if she walked through that door right now, you'd—"

The door was empty; no one stood behind the glass, no one with beautiful dark eyes and a beautiful dark voice whispering, _"Why?"_ Only a couple of wolf ears which swiveled to capture every decibel of sound that entered their range.

"No." Fraser half drained his mug in a single gulp. "I did love her, Ray. But had I known what she would do to you, to Dief— No."

"You sure of that?"

"Yes," Fraser opened his mouth, closed it. "I should have had my ears checked."

Vecchio poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "Wasn't your ears that got you in trouble, man. Want a refill?"

"Thank you." Fraser held out his cup. "How is your family, Ray?"

"My family?" Vecchio murmured, sloshing dark steaming liquid into the proffered mug. "You mean, Welsh didn't give you all the juicy details?"

"He actually told me very little," Fraser replied, alarmed. "Is something wrong? Are they—?"

"Fine. They're fine." Vecchio set the carafe down and knit his fingers together across his waist. "Ma's already planning the menu for Christmas; Maria's crocheting booties; and Frannie's dating a mortician. They're fine. When was the last time you ate?"

"Ate? I—" He shook his head, dismissing the question.

"When?"

"I don't remember."

"That's what it looks like. Chris!" Fraser startled at Vecchio's shout. The waitress was at the far end of the diner, replacing half-full sugar, salt, and pepper dispensers with topped-up ones. "Chris, get Fraser a stack of pancakes, a couple dozen eggs, a whole bunch of hashed browns—"

"Ray, don't."

"—a side of beef, whatever you have back there."

"He is looking a little thin," the woman commented, turning at once toward the kitchen.

"Ray, I—"

"Shut up, Fraser. And orange juice, the macho size."

"I'm not hungry, Ray," Fraser insisted.

"What about you, Vecchio?" The waitress walked out of sight into the kitchen. Almost immediately, something began to sizzle loudly on the griddle.

"Toast. With strawberry jam, okay? No grape. I hate grape. And no—"

"—mixed fruit." Chris's voice carried over the distance and the noise of metal against metal. "You hate that even more."

All innocence, Vecchio yelled back, "Have I mentioned that lately?"

"Naw," Chris chortled. "I'm psychic."

"Ray—"

Vecchio's voice hardened. "When you're finished eating, I'm out of here."

"Oh."

"What about the wolf?" Chris asked. She appeared just inside the kitchen doorway, one hand on a solid hip, the other pointing a spatula in Diefenbaker's direction. "Does he get his pancakes?"

"Ask Fraser." Vecchio raised his brows meaningfully. "It's _his_ wolf again."

She turned her attention to Fraser. When he did not speak, she prodded, "Well?"

"That's fine."

"Even the wolf gets a last meal," Vecchio said significantly.

A heavy, seemingly endless silence settled between them, like a canvas roof weighted with rain, prime for bursting. Vecchio, unaffected, rested with his back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, his shoes overhanging the end of the bench. As the minutes stretched by, Fraser surreptitiously studied him. It was curious this awkward, pained reunion. In some ways he had expected it to go far worse; in others, far better. One thing he had always relied upon, had believed without doubt, was that Vecchio was his friend, his one true friend in all the world. He had hoped, misguidedly perhaps, that Vecchio would understand why he had not contacted him; why, in fact, he had left with Victoria in the first place.

_"You would've been better off if I had pulled the trigger."_

Perhaps Vecchio was right.

"So what have you been doing with yourself, Fraser?" Vecchio asked casually.

Jolted out of his introspection, Fraser deliberated before framing a response. "Rebuilding my father's cabin mostly."

"Much of it left after she—after it burned down?"

"Not much, no."

"Victoria was thorough, you gotta give her that. So–is that where you've been all this time?"

"Mostly," Fraser hedged. The Stetson, with the precious envelope and its contents secreted in the inside band, drew his gaze with talismanic power. He raised his head to find himself the object of Vecchio's speculative scrutiny.

Just then Chris came out of the kitchen wielding two plates, one overflowing with scrambled eggs crammed with ham and cheese, a chicken-fried steak ladled thick with creamed gravy, a mountain of hashed brown potatoes that overlapped both the eggs and the steak, and three large biscuits; the other with pancakes piled four high that were nearly as big in diameter as the plate that bore them. She slapped these onto the table in front of Fraser, tugged a serviette surrounding a fork and knife out of her apron and placed it alongside one of the plates. Winking at Vecchio, she said, "I'll be back with your toast after I take care of the wolf, okay?"

"Sure." Vecchio made a face. "Right back to the natural order of things." She blew him a kiss and hastened away. Apparently sensing Fraser's hesitation, Vecchio urged him to begin. "Eat up, Fraser. You've been granted a stay." Somehow that particular choice of words failed to set Fraser's mind at ease.

Vecchio's plate of toast, several pats of butter, a half dozen tubs of strawberry jam, and the large glass of juice showed up while Fraser was still queasily contemplating the obscenely full plates before him. "More coffee?" Chris asked.

"Yeah." Directing a cynical look Fraser's way, Vecchio qualified the abruptness of his response with, "Please."

The waitress laughed out loud and took the empty carafe into the kitchen. His resolve stronger than his appetite, Fraser shoved the fork into the scrambled eggs. With the first bite, his throat threatened to close.

Scooting around to face his food, Vecchio began to butter his toast. "You remember that offer you made me?"

Fraser's heart faltered. If he were really lucky, it would stop altogether.

"Back in March?" Vecchio prodded. He looked at Fraser's face. "Oh, yeah, you remember," he said, laughing humorlessly when Fraser did not speak. He drew butter smoothly across the golden-brown triangle of toast. "It's okay, Fraser. I turned you down. And you know, that was the only consolation I had when you ran off. Well, that and the fact that I hadn't killed you at the train station." He apparently could not resist adding, "Even if you deserved it."

"Here's your coffee." Chris broke the silence once more. She clapped a hand on Fraser's shoulder and gave it a shake. "Come on; eat up. Is something wrong? I can get you—"

From somewhere Fraser conjured a reassuring smile for the woman. "No, it's delicious, Chris. Really."

"Don't worry," Vecchio said. "He's just tired; been traveling a lot lately."

"Yes." Fraser dug into the potatoes and filled his mouth. Smiling and working his jaws, he bobbed his head enthusiastically.

The door opened and a young couple walked in. Chris left with a final pat on Fraser's shoulder and went to the new customers, snagging menus off the counter along the way.

Vecchio remarked, "Going to be weird not having to walk that crazy wolf every day."

Fraser choked the mouthful down, then chased it with a gulp of orange juice. "I'm sorry, Ray." The words came out in a rush. "I didn't _want_ to leave him. I didn't want to leave _you_. And I always intended to come back."

Biting into his toast, Vecchio twitched a shoulder. "Yeah, sure. Hey, Fraser, I understand, okay? It was the only way you could be with her. I know that. And it's okay. Life happens."

Fraser's food cooled in front of him. He poked the fork into the gravy-drenched steak. A spicy scent rose into his nostrils. His stomach contracted. Astonishingly, despite his misery and turmoil, he was suddenly, killingly hungry.

"What about the Mountie thing?" Vecchio waved his knife for emphasis, inadvertently trailing toast crumbs across the table. "All they said was, 'hasta la vista, baby?'"

"Well, of course there was a fitness review board," Fraser answered. "My past record stood in my favor. Otherwise, charges would have been brought against me."

"It's a wonder you didn't insist. Letter of the law and all that."

"Well, I did." Fraser could not conceal his embarrassment. "But it was decided that the RCMP would be better served by simply discharging me."

Making little smacking noises as he licked his fingers, Vecchio muttered, "Yeah, they've got that Super-Mountie image to preserve. Still, considering all your years of service and that exemplary record of yours, you'd think they would've cut you some slack."

Fraser winced. "I aided in the flight of a known felon, Ray. It is frowned upon."

"Imagine that." Vecchio wiped his fingers on the crumpled serviette then finally began to shrug out of his coat. "Okay. So, tell me about the cabin." It was more demand than request, but the fact that Vecchio was relaxed enough to take off his coat and encourage non-hostile conversation fostered in Fraser a timid hope that they might actually sort things out.

Half an hour later Fraser's plates were wiped clean, barely a film of syrup left on one or grease on the other. He had talked about his father's cabin— _his_ cabin now, for little of what his father had built remained—in the most general terms before turning the conversation to what had gone on at the 27th in his absence. Vecchio, picking at his own plate as well as at Fraser's, had spoken casually of Elaine, Detective Huey, and Lieutenant Welsh in response to Fraser's questions, his face losing all animation as he recited the events which had culminated in Detective Gardino's death. After that, both men had fallen quiet, and it was then that Fraser had discovered he had finished his meal some minutes before. Sitting up taller to accommodate his uncomfortably full insides, he drained the dregs of his mug.

"You done?" Vecchio asked.

With a sudden, sharp reluctance, Fraser managed a slow, answering nod.

"Good." Silk whispered against vinyl as Vecchio escaped out of the booth. He stood up, draping his jacket over his arm.

"Ray—"

Vecchio motioned him to silence. "Yeah, I know you offered to buy coffee, but I made you eat all of that." He hooked his wallet out of his back pocket and started to walk away.

"Ray, wait—"

Absently counting out bills as he went, Vecchio asked, "What for? Said you were done, right?"

"We could have another coffee," Fraser pleaded.

" _You_ could have another coffee. _My_ back teeth are floating." He set two bills on the counter beside the cash register. "Twenty cover it, Chris?"

She poked her head around the kitchen door. "Too much. But if you're sure.... Thanks, Vecchio."

Fraser picked up his hat. Turning it over, he peeled back the leather trim running along the inside band. "Thank you, Ray."

In the midst of putting on his coat, Vecchio muttered, "Yeah, yeah. Just like old times."

Fraser's fingers froze on the edge of the envelope. Were he to offer this now, Vecchio would throw it back in his face—and that was the last thing that Fraser wanted. He would, he decided, give the envelope to Chris instead, with instructions to hand it over to Vecchio upon the man's next visit—tomorrow, probably.

After tucking the wallet back into his pocket, Vecchio drew the sides of his coat closed. Then he slumped back against the counter. "Well?" he said with exaggerated patience.

Fraser mimed a lack of understanding. "What, Ray?"

"What are you waiting for?"

"I—? Nothing. I thought you were leaving." Exhaustion, coupled with an overabundance of food, seemed to have crippled Fraser's usual acuity.

"I am. Coming?"

"Me?"

Vecchio's mouth started to curve into a smile, sweet, warm and unguarded, the kind that Fraser remembered from long ago; it disappeared almost instantly. "Who else? Let's go already."

"Go where?"

"To whatever fleabag motel you're staying at." When Fraser made no effort to move, when he only stared blankly up at him, Vecchio sighed. "Don't worry, Fraser, I won't say anything, no matter how squalid it is."

"Why would we go there?"

"To get your things, why else?" Vecchio regarded him doubtfully. "Are you all right?"

Damningly, the color rose in Fraser's face. "I'm fine, Ray. And I thank you, but—"

Misinterpreting Fraser's hesitation, Vecchio said bluntly, "No motel, right?"

Undone by this sudden kindness, Fraser stumbled, "Ah—Well, no. The plane was late, you see, and all the cabs—"

"Where did you leave your stuff, Fraser?" Vecchio spoke slowly and clearly, as though conversing with a child—or a very dim-witted adult.

Fraser smiled blankly.

"Would it maybe be in the park?"

The smile wavered. "It would."

"O—kay." Pushing away from the counter, Vecchio thrust his hands into his coat pockets. "There's a chance everything's still there. It _is_ just an hour after dawn."

"Ray," Fraser objected mildly, "I can walk."

"Never doubted it." Vecchio gestured toward the door, and presumably, the Buick beyond.

"It's very kind of you, Ray, but–"

"You don't understand," Vecchio said evenly. "We're going to the park to collect your stuff—if it's still there—and then you're coming to stay at my place."

Involuntarily, Fraser blurted, "No."

"No?"

"I—I don't want to impose on you."

"Oh, yeah," Vecchio said bitingly, dragging the two words into a half dozen syllables or more. "Leaving me with a mortgage the size of a small moon was imposing, Fraser. Dumping your loopy, half-dead lupine and all of his bills on me was imposing. Staying at my place for a while is _not_ imposing." He took a bolstering breath. "Besides, we'll have to share and you'll probably hate it."

"Ray, I really—"

"Can it." Vecchio stabbed a thumb toward the door. "Let's go." Without waiting to see that Fraser was in agreement, he strode off, the hem of his coat swirling around his legs like the folds of an executioner's robes. Yanking the heavy glass door open, he ordered, "Out of the way, pooch," yet waited until the wolf was on its feet before walking past. Still off balance, Fraser took up his hat and jacket and hurried after him.

Outside, Vecchio nudged Dief's plate with the toe of his shoe.

"Ah," Fraser said. He collected the licked-clean stoneware and carried it inside. Chris smiled and shook her head.

"Don't let him treat you bad," she advised, and took the plate.

"No." Producing a wan smile, he bade her good-bye. When he returned to the pavement, Vecchio and Diefenbaker were already inside the car, Diefenbaker occupying the front passenger seat, and a plume of condensation exhaust was jetting out of the back of the Riviera. Vecchio caught his eye, frowned, and gave his head a jerk. "What're you waiting for?" he shouted. The door was ajar. As Fraser pulled it open, Vecchio muttered a command to the wolf. It gave Fraser a measuring look, then slithered between the seats into the back.

"So whereabouts in the park did you leave your things?" Vecchio asked, his lip curled in the perpetual sneer that Fraser remembered so well.

"Not far from where Diefenbaker spotted me ... when you were playing ... in the snow." The Stetson teetered upon his knees as Fraser stretched the belt across his torso, and closed his mouth.

With a swift, sidelong glance, Vecchio commented, "Which couldn't have been a coincidence."

Fraser tread cautiously. "That's true. Lieutenant Welsh said you regularly take Dief to the park in your neighborhood."

"Why does that sound like a breach of security? What else did he say?"

Turning the hat round and round between his hands, Fraser raised his brows. "He only mentioned it, Ray. In one of his letters."

Slowing for a stoplight, Vecchio said, "What else?" He brought the car to a sudden and complete stop, snatched the Stetson out of Fraser's grasp, and tossed it onto the wide surface of the dash. He inhaled deeply. "What else?" he repeated.

In the act of retrieving the hat, Fraser felt the full heat of Vecchio's glare. His hands subsided onto his lap. "That you've been talking about quitting."

The light turned green and the Riviera lurched into the intersection, the disagreeably high-pitched interaction of rubber and asphalt heralding their departure. "And that's why you came back, right?"

"Because you want to quit?" Fraser asked.

"To talk me out of it."

"It's true then?"

Vecchio's fingers tightened on the wheel. He grunted.

Taking that as a yes, Fraser murmured, "Because of Louis? Lieutenant Welsh said your work on that investigation was among the best he'd seen. He was particularly impressed that you did not allow your previous experience with Frank Zuko to interfere with your work."

"Oh, yeah," Vecchio breathed, his voice ripe with scorn. With relaxed skill he guided the car onto the road near the park, adroitly avoiding the melting patch of ice that had threatened to wreck them before.

"Is that why—?"

"We're here, Fraser," Vecchio interrupted. He gestured toward the stand of trees where Fraser had hidden. "Make it snappy, will you?"

Grabbing the Stetson, Fraser stepped out of the car, scarcely waiting for it to come to a complete stop, ignoring Vecchio's squawk of protest. He closed the door before Diefenbaker could follow, as much to protect the integrity of the Riviera's upholstery from a renewed snowmelt as to ensure that Vecchio would wait for his return.

The backpack was where he had secured it. He brushed wet snow away, slung it over his shoulder, and immediately headed back to the road. The Riviera rocked slightly with the force of the powerful pistons, its cocksure rumble pure music to Fraser's ears. He had actually dreamed of that sound.

"Is that all?" Vecchio looked on as Fraser shoved the pack onto the floor behind the passenger seat.

"Yes." The leather seat was still warm from his body. He pulled the door shut and buckled himself inside.

Should I be worried about a visit from the INS?" Vecchio wondered aloud. He stomped on the accelerator and the Riviera leapt forward.

"I don't believe so, Ray."

"Fraser—?"

"I am here legal—"

A boy carrying a sled stepped into the street from the residential side of the road, causing the Riviera to stand almost on its nose.

"Watch where you're going!" Vecchio exploded. The kid threw up his middle finger, bulky with a neon-colored glove. "I didn't ask for your IQ," Vecchio fumed, waiting for the boy to saunter to the other side. "Moron!" he threw in for good measure when the young rebel was on the curb. He gunned the Riviera in a small act of rebellion of his own. "Kids. Can you believe that?"

"You _were_ going a little—"

"Did I ask you?"

Electing silence as his best response, Fraser took pleasure in reacquainting himself with the streets that led to Vecchio's house.

Without preamble, Vecchio said, "My father hated cops."

"Did he?" Fraser was uncertain what reaction was expected from him, nor why Vecchio had picked this moment to share that piece of information. In any case, based on comments Vecchio had made regarding his father in the past, it certainly came as no surprise.

"That was one of the reasons I wanted to be a cop. Anything my father hated, I liked. He drank like a fish, so I never touched the stuff. He cheated on my mother, so when I was married I was completely faithful. He—"

"You were married?"

Vecchio's mouth pursed. "Yeah. Not something I talk about, all right?"

"Oh. Of course."

"I wanted to be a cop for a lot of reasons, Fraser. Not all of them good." They traveled another half block before he continued. "It can be a power trip, you know? If you're nobody but you've got a badge, to some people—and maybe even yourself–you become somebody. That's all I ever was. A badge wanting to be somebody."

The Riviera glided past the street Ray usually turned into. Seeing distraction in the man's face, Fraser did not have the heart to correct him. "That's just not true, Ray," he said firmly. "It's not."

His loyalty was dismissed with an abrupt sideways dip of the head. "Not after I met you, anyway. With you as my partner, even unofficial, it was a lot easier to be a good cop. Like you." All expression drained from his face. "But it'll never be the same."

Fraser closed his eyes, regret and an immense shame bathing him from within. "I'm sorry, Ray." When he opened them again, they were cruising down a pleasant, tree-lined street he did not remember, the wheels of the Riviera crunching through new snow. Vecchio did not appear to be distracted now. Suddenly the regret and shame were overladen with a terrible dread.

"Ray—"

"Don't, Fraser. Victoria was really important to you. I didn't like that, or what you did, but I understood—sort of." He angled the car into a narrow driveway at the end of which stood a snow-covered carport attached to a small house. Beneath the carport he brought the Riviera to a stop and switched off the engine.

Throat tight, Fraser whispered, "You sold your house."

Vecchio gave him a startled look. "Welsh didn't tell you _that_ either?"

Shaking his head, Fraser asked, "Is this—?"

"Yeah." Vecchio opened his door and stepped onto the concrete apron. "Home sweet hovel."

The Stetson weighed heavily in Fraser's hand. He climbed out of the car on limbs almost too numb to function. Diefenbaker leapt straight from the backseat to the ground, then bounded to the front door. Fraser could not keep a note of despair out of his voice, "You said your family were—"

"They are." Vecchio motioned him toward the front step. "Everything I said was the truth."

"You let me believe they were with you."

"Guess I'm just a rotten guy, okay?"

" _Where_ are they, Ray?"

"Ma's in Florida with her sister." Vecchio pulled open the storm door and propped it open with a knee. He worked the key into the lock. "Uncle Alonzo went with her. Maria and Tony are sharing a place in New York with one of pop's sisters. She loves kids; really looking forward to the newest one. Great live-in babysitter." The door swung inside with a soft rustle of weatherstripping against sill. "Frannie's rooming with a friend. And, yes, she is dating a mortician."

"Here? In town?"

"Yeah." Vecchio waved him inside. "She'll be glad to see you."

A rush of warmth enveloped them, almost staggering Fraser where he stood. "I wish I'd known," he muttered.

Vecchio stripped off his coat and hung it in a narrow closet just off the entryway. "What for? Wanted a last look? Come on, give me your things."

As Fraser clumsily complied, Vecchio rambled on, "It's not much, I know. Single bedroom, pretty old. But the house sold well, and high. Paid off the mortgage and had enough to give everyone a cut. Was even enough for a down payment on this dump." He placed the hanger bearing Fraser's bulky jacket on the rod and closed the door. Moving down the hall, he said, "The idea of an apartment didn't make me warm all over, and the Diefmeister needed a yard." Pulling a face that conveyed equal parts of irritation and resignation, he said with false cheerfulness, "Fun mowing it every couple of months–whether it needs it or not. Not to mention picking up wolf ... stuff. I've only been turned in twice for weed violations. The neighbors love me, of course."

"Oh, Ray—"

"I know, Fraser. You're sorry."

"Oh, yes, I am. But I—"

"Let it go. It's done." His voice changed to a low, persuasive monotone. Escorting Fraser down the hallway, he said, "On your left is the half-bath, on your right the living room. Small dining area at the end of that; and on the other side of the bar is the kitchen. Great for the possessive chef: no room for more than one cook at a time. Behind me is the bedroom with an _en suite_ bath–that's what the realtor called it, _en suite_. Just a shower, sink, and toilet really. And the shower head leaks. Drives me crazy some nights." Vecchio slipped the backpack from Fraser's unresisting grip. He opened the bedroom door and tossed the bag inside. It landed, unseen, with a muffled thump. "Want something to drink?"

The resumption of his normal tone took Fraser off guard. He sketched a smile and gestured vaguely at himself. "My back teeth, you know—"

"Yeah, okay. But you should sit down, Fraser, before you fall down. You look sick."

Setting the Stetson on the tiny dining table, Fraser did as suggested. He did not feel sick—but then there were no words for how desperately awful he felt. Because of him Vecchio had lost his home and his family. His anger at the park made appalling sense now. Yet he had bought Fraser's breakfast and brought him here to stay. The hot sting of tears made him lower his head. He must not break down now.

"You all in, Fraser?" The quiet concern in Vecchio's voice nearly finished him.

"I–Yes. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. Why don't you just take a shower and climb into bed?"

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"It's your bed, Ray."

"And it's nine-thirty in the morning, Fraser. I'm not going to need it for at least twelve hours. And, anyway, told you we'd have to share." Vecchio picked up the Stetson, planted it on Fraser's dark head, urged him back to his feet, then bodily pointed him toward the bedroom door. "Bathroom's to your right, just inside. Believe me, you won't get lost."

Beyond argument, Fraser followed his instructions. He felt strangely disconnected, like a marionette without a puppeteer. The double bed took up most of the room. A long dresser stretched along the wall opposite the foot of the bed, and small bedside tables stood sentry at either side of the headboard–all pieces Fraser recognized from before. A large table, or box, completely covered by a blanket, occupied the space in front of the wood-framed window, a straggly poinsettia set squarely in the middle.

"Dump your clothes on the floor," Vecchio called. "Smells like they could use a wash."

With a finger, Fraser pushed open the unlatched door to the bathroom. As Vecchio had said, there was a shower, sink, and toilet, the room just big enough to enclose those items and nothing more. He dropped the Stetson on the dresser and began to strip off his flannel outer shirt. A thud sounded on the bed behind him. It was Diefenbaker who fixed large, wolfish eyes on him for a long moment before lowering his muzzle to rest on his paws.

"You're looking well," Fraser said politely.

The wolf groaned under its breath.

"Of course I'm sorry. But it was a debt. You knew that." He folded the flannel shirt and set it on the floor. "No, she had no cause to shoot you. I wish that she hadn't." The pile of clothing mounted as Fraser stripped off. The reek of the miles and days of travel rose into his nostrils, new and eye-wideningly pungent now that he was somewhat removed from it. Vecchio had been uncharacteristically kind in his assessment. "Ray has taken very good care of you. Of course I knew that he would." Naked, Fraser stepped into the bathroom. He glanced back at the wolf. "We'll continue this discussion later." Gently, he closed the door.

A short while later Fraser stood leaning forward against the shower stall, his cheek pressed against his forearms, hot water pounding down on his shoulders and back. If only Welsh had told him about Vecchio's situation he could have contacted him, urged him to wait. But he knew now that Welsh had never meant for Fraser to come back, had told him that Vecchio was considering quitting only because he thought Fraser might be able to talk him out of it. He must have been aware of Vecchio's decision to sell his house, of the break-up of his family. But he had told him none of that—not one word of anything really important.

That icy morning eight months ago in Yellowknife had taught Fraser a new respect for the pain one human could inflict upon another. Victoria upon him; he upon Ray. Morally obligated to take responsibility for his actions, he had never attempted to shield himself from his part in what had happened, no matter how unintended. For some people, it seemed, intention was not necessary to cause unforgivable pain.

He twisted round to face the water, wishing it could wash away not only the coldness within, but his self-loathing. His selfish impulse had touched everything and everyone of any importance to him. And being forgiven—or almost forgiven—perhaps a _little_ forgiven—somehow made it only worse.

Vecchio was sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand in Diefenbaker's ruff when Fraser came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped round his hips, and another over his head with which he sluggishly scrubbed at his hair. "Was beginning to wonder if I'd have to dredge the pipes for you," Vecchio said.

Fraser opened his mouth to speak, then stared at the combinations lying across the foot of the bed. Even from here he could see his name penned inside the back collar with permanent ink–in his handwriting. "Where did you—?" He followed the direction of Vecchio's head, registering at once the object beneath the window which earlier he had mistaken for a table.

Sans blanket and poinsettia, his father's trunk was revealed. Draping the towel over his shoulder, Fraser approached with some trepidation. The lid stood open, propped against the frame of the window. Red serge and brown wool jackets and navy trousers with yellow striping running down the outer seam were neatly folded within. Fraser went down on one knee and lifted the clothing out of the way. There inside was all that remained of his past, his father's journals, organized from the oldest to the most recent, safeguarded, treated with respect, and stored for his return. Fraser ran a fingertip along the spines of the aged binders and drew in a long, shaky breath.

"Knew you'd want those some day," Vecchio said. Then, louder: "Put that tongue away, you disgusting thing. Yuck."

"I'm very grateful," Fraser whispered. He dropped his head and blinked hard, forcing the swelling in his throat to go down. He would not disgrace himself now.

"Sure, no problem." The bed creaked as Vecchio rose to his feet. "Open the window, if you want. TV bother you? There's a game on—"

"No. Of course not. Ray—"

"Get some sleep, Fraser. Cup of cocoa on the nightstand." He stood at the door, hand on the knob. "If you need anything, I'll be around here somewhere."

"Ray, I—"

"Yeah, yeah." To Diefenbaker, he said smartly, "You coming?" When the wolf did not immediately stir, Vecchio made a sharp gesture toward the door. Rather ungraciously the wolf conceded, front paws dropping to the floor followed by back paws, two distinct and noisy thumps with a lazy stretching of insolent wolf in between. Without looking back, Vecchio pulled the door closed behind them.

Alone, Fraser took a journal out of the trunk at random. 9/69: It was the one he had been reading when Vecchio had found him in the diner the evening following the day they had first met–an inauspicious meeting which had evolved into a friendship the like of which Fraser had never known. After lowering the lid, he carried the thin tome to the bed and set it on the pillow. When his hair was nearly dry and he was encased in soft, warm, and very red combinations from throat to ankle, Fraser returned to the window and raised it the width of a hand, thumb included. Almost dreamily, he crossed the room once more, took up his father's writings, and slipped between the covers of Vecchio's bed. Eyes shuttering down, he lay flat and breathed out slowly, muscles, joints, and nerve endings all relaxing at the same, almost excruciatingly painful moment. The pillow was scented with Vecchio's presence, a fact Fraser found eminently comforting. This was not a dream, nor a fantasy. Somehow, he would find a way to make everything up to his friend; somehow he would make everything right.

Holding his father's journal on his chest, Fraser fell deeply asleep.

* * *

The stillness was profound, the sort that follows a barrage of noise. Jarred into awareness, Fraser opened his eyes upon the gloom of a winter's evening. The bedside clock indicated that it was just past six. The day had formed and faded all unseen. He vaguely recalled hearing voices: Vecchio's and those emanating from the speakers of the TV. Feeling utterly blank, like sand swept smooth of tracks, he yawned and rolled forward, peering into the darkness.

Someone stood at the window.

"Ray?" Fraser said hopefully.

The figure turned. Light from without, dim and yellow, proclaimed his identity. Fraser stared, speechless.

"Hello, son," the apparition said.

"Dad?"

"How are you?" his father asked.

"Fine. I—Did you move here? To Chicago, I mean?"

"No," Robert Fraser replied, his tone of voice conveying some bafflement. "Why should you ask that?"

"Oh." Fraser drew his knees closer to his chest, distantly conscious of a penetrating coldness. "Well, it's been a long time—"

"That." The deceased Mountie shrugged. "No sense in staying where I'm not wanted."

"Is that why you—?" He reconsidered what he had been about to say. "I, uh, I rebuilt the cabin."

"Did you? And how's the little woman like it?"

"She's not— You don't know?"

"Know what?"

Fraser responded with a shrug of his own. "We aren't together anymore."

"Hm." The dead man nodded sagely. "I wondered. Especially now that you're back with that American. D'you intend to stay?"

Shaking his head, Fraser answered pragmatically, "No. I doubt that Ray would want me to. I let him down rather badly."

"Ah, but he's as crazy as you are, son. Haven't you noticed?"

"There were times I suspected," Fraser admitted. "Still—I don't see how he could ever completely forgive me for what I did."

"Don't be silly. He would forgive you anything."

The thought was warming if, unfortunately, unlikely. "Even Ray has his limits," Fraser argued.

His father left the window and came nearer the bed. "Not where you're concerned. Is that my journal on the floor?" Elbows jutting out at his sides, he glared into the shadows beside the bed. "That _is_ my journal."

"It must have fallen off," Fraser apologized automatically. "Uh, what did you mean, that Ray would—?" At the dismayed expression this prompted, his courage evaporated. "Nothing. Never mind."

Matter-of-factly, the elder Fraser said, "I overheard you proposition him. March, wasn't it? Not long before you—"

Flustered, Fraser interrupted, "He turned me down." Was it possible that at some unnoticed moment during his travels Fraser had died and this, now, was his punishment for an unworthy existence?

"Well, sure. But not because he doesn't love you."

"Dad– Do you hear what you're saying?"

"That he loves you? Or for that matter that you love him? Do you think I'm blind, son?"

"No. Ah—" Language briefly abandoned him. Thumbing his brow, Fraser stuttered, "If I— If he and I—" Discussing such matters with his father was almost insuperably difficult. "Would you mind?"

"None of my business." A flannel-clad arm pointed accusingly at the diary. "That's no way to treat my journals, son."

"No, sorry—" Belatedly, Fraser uncoiled and leaned over the side of the mattress. He plucked the thin volume off the floor. "But if—and it won't happen, Ray must despise me—"

"Which is no doubt why he took it upon himself to feed you and bring you home," Fraser senior observed trenchantly.

Fraser brushed invisible dust off the leather binding. "He's a good man."

"He's been known to try," the specter agreed. "Was there a point to what you were saying, son?"

Clutching the journal between both hands, Fraser looked up earnestly, "If he and I—on the very remote chance that I could persuade him—"

"Spit it out, boy."

"You left when I went with Victoria." The words sounded pitiably childish.

"Ah." Hands clasped behind his back, Robert Fraser strode toward the window. "You wouldn't listen to me. Be honest, son: you didn't _want_ me around."

Fraser dropped his gaze. "I knew you must be disappointed."

The older man paused. "And I won't be if you start sleeping with that Yank?"

"Well, of course you— I mean, I know it's not what you'd prefer for me, but—" Fraser hated the hint of pleading in his voice; he simply wanted his father to understand. "Ray gave up everything for me."

Robert Fraser's brows twitched shrewdly. "Hmpf. At least he—"

"Loves me?" Fraser whispered.

"Won't try to hurt you," his father corrected.

"Oh." Embarrassed by the other man's astuteness, Fraser briefly occupied himself with placing the journal just so on the nightstand. "Dad—Dad?" But the space where his father had stood was empty. Fraser found himself quite alone in the room.

As he had many times before, Fraser wondered if the creature truly was a ghost or merely the product of his always active imagination. Since the thing most often appeared in order to present arguments contrary to right thinking—and, it must be said, contrary to Robert Fraser's deeply held and well known beliefs—and arguments which also just happened to support Fraser's more self-serving urges of the moment, it could all too easily be inferred that the posthumous Robert Fraser was entirely a construct of his mind. Only in the matter of Victoria Metcalf had he spoken with his living voice. And Fraser had ignored it.

The timely imposition of a cramp of hunger allowed Fraser to put the niggling thought aside. Regardless of whether the specter were real or fancied, Fraser felt the better for having seen it again. In fact, he was all at once recharged: ravenous, thirsty, and brimming with hope.

He turned on the bedside lamp and swung his legs off the side of the mattress. The mug of cocoa, left on the bedside table so many hours ago was cold and clotted; Fraser drank it down in a single, long swallow. He shivered. It was nippy with the door closed and the window open, even that little bit. Unaware that he was smiling, he reflected upon Vecchio's indulgence; few others, he suspected, would have been allowed such liberty. His clothes, newly washed, dried, and folded, sat on the end of the dresser. Fraser padded around the foot of the bed to the window and drew it down, conscientiously latching it because he knew Vecchio would do so himself. Then he collected his clothes and a few items from his kitbag and took them into the bathroom. After brushing the sleep out of his mouth, Fraser stepped once more under the shower, this time simply delighting in hot water upon demand.

There was no one in the living room when he emerged a few minutes later, skin glowing, his hair combed back damply. He called out Vecchio's name, then Diefenbaker's, but neither responded. Walking into the living room, he trailed a palm across the surface of the television set and found it warm but rapidly cooling. Then he went into the kitchen.

The contents of the coffeepot were hot and fresh enough to have been made within the last half hour. It was the most perfect drink to pass his lips in days. He poked about in the cupboards and a tall narrow pantry before turning to the refrigerator. A red and white box with a KFC logo on its side and a piece of paper taped to its top greeted him within. On the paper was scrawled in Vecchio's distinctive handwriting, "Help yourself, Fraser."

So he did, carrying his coffee and the makings of a small feast to the table. The chicken and mashed potatoes retained some heat despite having been stored in the refrigerator for probably as long as the TV had been switched off. His stomach reacted to the first mouthfuls with enthusiasm. Two thighs, a leg, a breast, a small tub of mashed potatoes with gravy and another of coleslaw later, the emptiness was almost, though not quite, appeased. Disposing of the remains in the trash bin, Fraser cherished this further evidence of Vecchio's good will. Wondering where the other man had gotten off to, he refilled the mug and went to the door.

Outside, in the very crisp air, he stood at the edge of the tiny porch and leaned against the corner support beam. The Riviera was a solid shadow under the carport—Vecchio could not have gone far.

Christmas lights festooned many of the houses lining the street, some radiating quiet dignity, others winking frantically—"bug lights," Vecchio had labeled them their first Christmas together. Fraser stretched over the edge of the porch and peered back up at the small house. No lights decorated these eaves. Settling his shoulder back against the post, Fraser puzzled over the date. After so long on the road, battling blizzards and delays, he had lost track of the time. But it must, at the least, be the second week of December. No wonder Vecchio had mentioned that his mother was planning her Christmas menu.

It was quiet here, the evening clear and breathtakingly cold. The snow had melted a little while he slept; there was plenty left to admire. He heard footfalls in the distance, the pace brisk and wholly recognizable. Fraser turned in their direction, but a thick hedge of unleafed lilac which marked the boundary between Vecchio's property and the one neighboring obscured his view.

"You!" a woman, sounding angry and a little frightened, called out. "Your wolf has taken my Verpi, I know it, I can't find him anywhere."

"You need to get your fence fixed, Mrs. Colarelli. That rat you call a dog doesn't have enough sense to stay home." That, Fraser identified as the voice of Raymond Vecchio.

Moving to the other side of the porch, Fraser could finally see him, thickly bundled in his heaviest jacket, warmest gloves, scarf, and hat. He had stopped in the street in front of the house across from his neighbor's. Beside him Diefenbaker sat, unperturbed, smiling up at a small, round woman who wore a housecoat and, incongruously amid the snow and frigid temperature, slippers shaped and stuffed to look like a cartoon cat.

"He is gone!" Fraser heard petition as well as rebuke in the woman’s words.

“He’s here.” Vecchio spoke with surprising gentleness. To Fraser’s bemusement, he reached inside his coat and produced a tiny, bald-looking Chihuahua. “He was trying to seduce Mr. Roma’s Rottweiler.”

“Oh, Verpi!” She grabbed the animal out of Vecchio’s hands and folded herself around it.

“Good night, Mrs. Colarelli,” Vecchio said lightly, completely ignored as the woman shuffled through the snow to her house. “And tell Vince to shovel your walk tomorrow, why don’t you?” His only reply was the slamming of her door.

Diefenbaker suddenly rose up and trotted ahead of Vecchio. The wolf crossed the street, bypassed the steps to the porch by the simple expedient of vaulting over them, and skidded to a stop at Fraser’s feet.

“Hello to you, too,” Fraser said. An icy wet nose pushed up under his outstretched hand. Fraser dropped to his heels and hooked a forearm round the wolf’s neck, the mug of coffee held safely off to one side. Murmuring a wordless greeting, he hugged the animal, moved by its happy panting and the cutting swing of its tail, both of which produced a notable breeze.

Stamping his feet, Vecchio joined them. “The dead arise,” he announced. His brow furrowed. “Is that ice in your hair?”

Fraser reached up and checked. The residual moisture in his hair had indeed frozen. “Only a little.”

“Well, that’s all right then,” Vecchio said, deadpan. “It’s cold as a well-digger’s— Well, I’m going inside.” He pulled open the storm door with a loud, metallic squawk, pushed against the solid wood entry door, and stepped over the threshold into the house.

“Come on, Dief,” Fraser said. “It is cold.” Actually, compared to where he had come from, this was positively balmy. Fraser had not bothered with a jacket, however, and a stealthy chill was beginning to prickle his skin.

Inside, Vecchio, pulling off his gloves, ordered, “Wipe your feet!”

Both Fraser and Diefenbaker obediently made use of the coarse mat just inside the door.

“You hungry?” Vecchio asked.

Uncertain which of them was being addressed, Fraser glanced down at Diefenbaker, who ignored him, then back up at Vecchio. Pointing a finger at himself, he was answered by an arched brow and a forebearing nod. “I am, actually,” Fraser confessed.

“I left a box of chicken in the fridge for you.”

“I ate it.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

Sighing, Vecchio began to jerk the gloves back onto his fingers. “O—kay.” Rebuttoning his coat, he bared his teeth. “So—How about dessert?”

Diefenbaker woofed.

“Not BR,” Vecchio admonished. “We had that last time. DQ?”

The wolf sounded its agreement.

“Right. Get your coat, Fraser.”

Fraser opened his mouth to protest, having no desire to be any sort of a nuisance. But Vecchio was already reaching for the door. “Come on. Get the lead out.”

“Lead? What does lead have—?” The question died unspoken, cut short by a scathing look that could have leveled an old oak. “All right, Ray.”

Soon they were huddled inside the Riviera, heater blasting, as Vecchio drove too fast over icy streets. At a stop light which could not be dismissed, Vecchio turned to rake his companion with a critical glance. “Did you get enough sleep, Fraser?”

“Yes,” Fraser replied. “Thank you.”

Conversation lapsed during the remainder of the short ride. Vecchio’s was the only car in the parking lot as they went into the building, mute testament to the bracing temperature. A young girl slouching next to the cash register groaned under her breath as they strode up to the counter.

“Busy night, huh?” Vecchio said.

“Wasn’t until you came in,” she said.

“Watch it, Cindy, or you might not get a tip.”

“As if I’d notice, the way you tip.” Craning her neck to one side, she spotted Diefenbaker who stood outside the door. “The usual?” she called. Her answer was a quick yap. “Okay. And you?” she asked Vecchio.

“Sure.”

She accorded Fraser a shockingly unhurried examination. “This your friend?” she asked curiously.

When Vecchio said nothing for a painfully long moment, Fraser felt his appetite begin to wither.

“Yeah,” Vecchio said with no inflection whatsoever. “My very best friend.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll have what he’s having,” Fraser stammered.

The girl grinned at him, instantly transformed from bored, sulky teenager to beautiful pubescent woman. “Hope you’re hungry,” she said as she turned toward the counter behind her.

Giving Vecchio an anxious look, Fraser said, “What did I order?”

“Peanut Buster Parfait—try saying _that_ fast three times. No, I didn’t mean it. _You_ could.”

“Is it bad, a Peanut Buster Parfait?”

“Nah. You can handle it. Trust me.”

* * *

While Diefenbaker pinned a large-size cup between his paws and worried at the mound of strawberry-covered soft serve within, Fraser and Vecchio sat at a table near the window. Savoring the combination of hot fudge, peanuts, and smooth iced milk concoction, Fraser commented wryly, “Ice cream in winter.”

“The height of decadence. Tastes good, though, doesn’t it?”

“Hm.” Fraser swallowed, slowly filling the long-handled spoon with another bite. “You spoke of leaving the force, Ray. What would you do? If I might ask.”

“You might—and I might answer. What would I do? Who knows? My skills are so plentiful. Security guard, campus rent-a-cop, funeral escort—”

“Detective,” Fraser interjected.

Vecchio stabbed the tip of his spoon into his parfait glass. “Raymond Vecchio, private dick. Oh, yeah.”

“You’d be good at it, Ray,” Fraser said with conviction.

Some of the brittleness left Vecchio’s features. “It’s the part I like best,” he owned, “‘detecting.’ Finding the pieces to the puzzle, putting them together.”

“You’ve given this serious consideration?”

“Serious enough for Welsh to get you to come back to talk me out of it.”

Discomfited, Fraser defended himself, “I honestly did not know that.”

“And, for what it’s worth, you haven’t tried. Yet. Will you?”

“It’s your choice, Ray.”

“Gee, thanks.” He licked the bowl of the spoon clean then drove the tip into the hot fudge heart of the cup. “I called Welsh while you were conked out.”

“You did?”

“He wondered why you hadn’t gotten in touch with him before coming to see me. Said he’d told you to do that.” Vecchio looked at him sidelong, an arched brow ensuring that Fraser would not miss the implied question.

“I didn’t want to wait.” Fraser shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Hm.” With studied nonchalance, Vecchio said, “That offer you made last March—does it still stand?”

Fraser blinked. “Do you want it to?”

This time Vecchio shrugged, but mostly with his face. “What can I say? I'm an idiot.” He heaved a sigh. “But answer me this, Fraser. What happens when Victoria comes back?”

“She won’t, Ray.”

“I’d like to believe you. But I gotta tell you, man, a woman like that, whether she loves you or hates you, she won’t give up that easily.”

“She always meant to leave me.”

The spoon stopped on its final approach to Vecchio’s lips. “Seriously?’”

“She said so, that last morning in Yellowknife.” Among so many other things, she had indeed said that.

_“Really?”_

“Yes.” Not unaffected by the quickly concealed sympathy mixed with pity that flashed across Vecchio’s mobile features, Fraser said evenly, “More important is how _you_ feel about _me_. You have every right to be angry. Every right to want to get even with me. Can you just ig—?”

“Yes,” Vecchio interrupted brusquely. “You know me, Fraser; I’ve seen the underside of your shoes so often we’re on a first-name basis. It’s what you want that I need to understand. Almost a year ago you asked me—” He broke off.

Closely examining the unlikely pink surface of their plastic table, Fraser stated in a hushed but steady voice, “I asked if you would consider becoming intimate with me.”

Vecchio shoveled the spoon back into the cup. “And I said—”

“That the bed in my apartment wasn’t big enough.” Fraser smiled briefly but with little humor. “Nevertheless you preferred that I not purchase a bigger one because—”

Vecchio exhaled wearily. “I might’ve been seriously tempted.”

“And if you’d given in to temptation—”

“We would’ve flushed our careers down the toilet.”

“You still have a career, Ray,” Fraser felt honor-bound to point out. “And it’s still flushable.”

“And Victoria might still come back. And what will you do then?”

“What if she doesn’t, Ray?” Fraser countered. “What if you were stuck with me for the rest of your life?”

Vecchio did not answer immediately. Rather, he took his time to study Fraser, his expression thoughtful, almost calculating. Finally, and with a quick breath, he concluded, “Because she left you, you’ve decided I’m the best you can do, is that it?”

The jibe was as pointed as an arrow and struck as true. “Perhaps I deserve that,” Fraser conceded, his voice a harsh whisper. “But may I remind you that it was _you_ who turned _me_ down?”

Vecchio scowled at his dessert. “Yeah, that’s fair. Maybe I’ve just never completely understood—I mean I _understood_ , but I didn’t _understand_ , you know?—why you went with her in the first place. How could you after she nearly killed the Diefman, almost ruined me, _did_ ruin you, even almost got _you_ killed—” At Fraser’s startled reaction, he nodded knowingly. “Brought in the guy who fenced the diamonds a month or so after you left. Told us everything. That you should have been dead, because she’d set you up. Again.” Shivering, Vecchio huddled deeper inside his coat. “All that, and you went with her anyway.”

“It was a debt, Ray.” Fraser’s throat was dry; his voice cracked on the other man’s name.

“She was a criminal, Fraser. You didn’t owe her anything.”

“Not to her.”

“Say what?” Vecchio mimed having misheard, drilling a finger in one ear for emphasis.

Placing both hands flat on the table, Fraser examined the squared off lengths of flesh and bone that were his fingers; they trembled, just a little. He hoped Vecchio would not notice. “It was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done,” he said, shamed. In order to set right a wrong—a wrong which, in the depths of his soul, he _knew_ did not deserve righting—he had forsaken all he respected and held dear. But Victoria, ten years before and again eight months ago, had stirred up the grey sediment at the bottom of his black and white world, clouding his view of love, of the law, and of himself in particular. Right or wrong, he had seized the opportunity to pay off that debt. His second chance.

Vecchio made a choked little sound, a cross between a laugh and a groan. “You had to’ve known better.”

“Oh, yes.” Fraser ventured a look from under his lashes. Vecchio was shaking his head, unwilling affection and acceptance displacing the resentment and anger of a moment ago.

“You expected her to dump you,” he stated.

Fraser nodded. “If she didn’t kill me first.”

“Oh, Benny,” Vecchio sighed—and the use of his first name, _Vecchio’s_ name for him, fired a sudden dizzying hope deep inside the frozen core of him. “You know,” Vecchio commented, “we do deserve each other. We were both idiots: Me, for you. You, for her.”

“I’m sorry, Ray. I never—”

“Ding!”

They turned toward the girl behind the counter. She was removing her half-apron. “Time for you two to take it somewhere else.”

Uncertain what she meant, Fraser composed his features into a mask of blandness. Vecchio, however, seemed to understand her implicitly. “It’s legal in this state, Cindy.”

“Not after seven o’clock, on a Sunday, in my place of business it isn’t,” she corrected him.

Vecchio smiled with improbable amiability, “And here was me, planning on rewarding you for being such a discreet little ice cream server.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’ve forgotten your Catechism, Detective. People who tell lies go to hell.”

“Purgatory. Venial sin, remember?”

“Not when you combine it with sodo—”

The scrape of Vecchio’s chair against the linoleum floor drowned out whatever else she meant to say. “Where’d you learn about stuff like that?” he asked, pretending disgust. “Never mind.” To Fraser, he said, “Bring that along, if you want—just don’t spill any in my car.”

“I’ve got lids.” The girl displayed flimsy plastic covers enticingly. “For both of you. That’s a lot of ice cream to waste.”

It was true; they had barely touched their desserts.

“Well, what do you know?” Vecchio said admiringly. “At least you’re trying.” He handed over a bill in exchange for the two lids. “And a paper bag. Please.” He passed the covers over to Fraser.

“Thank you very much, Miss,” Fraser said, affixing first one then the other lid to the parfait cups.

She whipped the paper sack open with a loud crack. “That’s ‘Ms.’”

“Ah. Ms. Right you are.”

“Keep the change, Cindy. Come on, Fraser.” Vecchio shoved the remains of their ice cream into the bag, which he then pressed into Fraser’s hands. Complaining all-encompassingly under his breath, Vecchio ushered him to the door. Just outside Fraser bent over to collect the licked-clean strawberry sundae container, having to extricate it from the protective shelter of Diefenbaker’s shoulder and crooked foreleg. Rising, he witnessed the wink and smile Vecchio cast back at the girl—and her haughty grin in response. “Yo, Dief, you ready to go home?”

Breath frosting voluminously, the wolf sprang to its feet and pranced off to the car as Fraser dutifully took the empty sundae cup to the dumpster at the end of the building.

On his way back, Fraser scanned the front windshield of the Buick, eyes settling on the man and wolf within. Light from the outside of the building illuminated them clearly. Head angled to one side, Vecchio studied him in return, speculation in his heavy-lidded gaze. Blinking slowly, he gave his head an equally slow shake. A smile, small but unmistakably one of welcome, melted upon his lips. Swallowing hard, Fraser ducked his head, ostensibly to supervise his footing at the edge of the curb. In reality, he was overwhelmed. For months he had longed to see this man’s face, to hear the sound of his voice. He had lived all that time in a hell of his own creation, a hell he had all too generously imposed upon this kindest of men as well. And he knew now, despite all the bluster, the anger, the resentment, that Vecchio would forgive him everything.

Fraser would have to tell him the rest of it.

* * *

“I gave my notice,” Vecchio declared as he drew the car to a halt inside the carport next to his home.

“You gave—?” Fraser was dumbfounded. “You resigned?!”

“Yeah.” He placed the transmission in Park and slid the key out of the ignition. “Earlier, while you were sleeping. When I called Welsh.”

“Ray, are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“He shouldn’t’ve jerked us around,” Vecchio said flatly. “Look, Fraser, I—” He cut himself off. “Let’s go inside.”

Apprehension mingling with respect, alarm with approval, Fraser let the wolf out of the backseat. Scrupulously he set the lock and followed. Vecchio was propping both storm and entry doors open for him; belatedly taking notice, Fraser hastened his step before he could be issued a rebuke.

Inside, they removed their winter gear. Vecchio plucked the paper bag from Fraser’s hand. “I’ll make coffee,” he said. As he passed through the dining room, he set the bag on the table.

“Have you thought this through?” Fraser went into the dining area and stood there, tracking Vecchio’s every movement. It did not matter what the other man was doing so long as he might watch.

“Yep.” Vecchio slid the refilled carafe inside the coffee machine. “What you said about my being a private investigator; that I’d do okay—” He tossed the used grounds into the trash then scooped loosely measured fresh coffee into a new filter. “Did you mean that?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“I’ll need a partner.” Pausing in the process of sliding the filter basket into its slot, Vecchio cast him a meaningful look. “What’re the chances of your getting a Work Permit?”

“Me?”

The basket was shoved home. “You. Dief’s already an honorary citizen. And an honorary partner. Aren’t you, Dief?” The wolf, lying on a wolf-sized padded pillow in the living room, rolled onto its side and groaned.

“Fraser,” Vecchio persisted patiently, “Is your record a mess, or is it clean?”

“Clean, Ray.” He pretended to rub the back of his neck, needing a moment to compose himself. “Completely.” He stood straighter. “I’d need a sponsor.”

“That’d be me, I guess.” Vecchio tipped his head to one side in a shrug that was wholly unique and wholly characteristic. “If you _want_ to be my partner, that is. Do you?”

“Yes. Very much.” Fraser licked his lips. “You would trust me, Ray?”

Thumbing the coffee pot switch to the on position, Vecchio said, “Sure.”

 _“Why?”_ Fraser exclaimed huskily.

“You trying to talk me out of this?” Vecchio waved a hand to silence him. “Look, Frase—I trusted you a million times. Out of those million times you blew me off once. And there were—” He drew an unpleasant face “–mitigating circumstances. I’d say that makes you way more reliable than most of the people I know.”

Finding his voice at that moment was more difficult than Fraser would have imagined. “I would be honored to be your partner, Ray.”

“Great.” Vecchio fidgeted uncomfortably. “Great. Um—You take care of this, okay? I’m going to get cleaned up. Gotta be in early tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Fraser tried not to stare at the other man as he fled the room. He understood that Vecchio was flustered, that he had given away far more of his true feelings in asking Fraser to be his partner than in anything he had said regarding Fraser’s offer.

Dazed, elated, and not a little uncertain, Fraser occupied himself by storing their ice cream first in the cupboard, a second later in the microwave, and a moment after that in the freezer. He stood entirely self-absorbed for a full five minutes, subliminally listening to both the prattle of the coffee maker and the distant rush of the shower. Something nagged at him, something Vecchio had either said or done—but Fraser was finding it difficult to focus. Vecchio wanted him to be his partner. He meant to leave the force, to become a private detective. And he wanted Fraser to—

It was not what Vecchio had said or done, but what he had left _unsaid_. Twice he had brought up the subject of the offer Fraser had made earlier this year, and twice he had left it unresolved. Was it that he wanted a business partner, no more?

Instinctively, Fraser rejected that notion. However untried he might be in romantic involvements, he knew that Vecchio cared for him. Loved him. Whether he was _in_ love with him, Fraser did not know. But there might be a way to make his feelings for Vecchio perfectly clear.

Heart drumming high inside his chest, which made it difficult to breathe normally, Fraser unplugged the coffee maker and went into the bedroom. From the living room, the wolf regarded him doubtfully. “Not one word, mister,” Fraser warned and silently pulled the door shut. Closing his eyes and exhaling until not a whisper of breath remained in his body, he began to take off his clothing. The buttons on his shirt seemed to shrink at the same time that his fingers seemed to grow clumsily large. In the end, a seam and a button were forfeited to haste, dread of what Vecchio might say conspiring with fear of what Vecchio might—or might not—do making him careless.

He was standing whitely naked, textured with gooseflesh, when the shower shut off in the adjoining room. Panicked, Fraser snatched up the edge of the sheet, grateful he had left the bed unmade, and dived beneath it. His eyes, overwide and slightly glazed, turned toward the door of the bathroom. It opened a crack, and warm, moist air poured out like the breath of the wakening sun.

The door widened and Fraser, not daring to meet Vecchio’s eyes when he discovered what awaited him, rolled over, clutching a pillow in both arms.

It was just as well. He sensed the other man’s presence, felt on a molecular level the shift of air currents as Vecchio stepped into the bedroom. Felt them still entirely as Vecchio’s movements ceased.

A full minute, counted second by endless second, went by. And then Vecchio spoke. “Oh, looky,” he intoned, his voice threaded with anger. “My very own sacrificial sex object.”

Fraser gripped the pillow tighter, tensing for what he knew must follow.

“What the hell are you thinking!” Vecchio shouted.

Eyes cast down, Fraser forced himself to turn over. “I thought—”

“What? That because Victoria screwed you to get even, I’d want to do the same?”

“No, Ray. Nothing like that.” Drawing upon hitherto untested reserves of determination, Fraser sat up, arms still wrapped round the now crushed pillow. Tentatively, he said, “You don’t want me then?”

Clad in an ankle-length silk dressing-gown, cinched at the waist with a wide sash, Vecchio stared at him through eyes that shot sparks. “Yeah, I want you. Way more than is probably normal for a man my age.” At Fraser’s suddenly elevated eyebrows, Vecchio glared at him. “And religion. But I won’t use you, you idiot. You don’t owe me that.”

A little lightheaded, Fraser said, “Ray, I’m confused. You brought up the offer I made. Didn’t that mean—?”

“Yeah, it meant.” Discussing this was clearly not making Vecchio happy. Before Fraser could request if not proper syntax at least a complete sentence, his friend went on, “But eight months ago you were crazy in love with Victoria Metcalf. Much as I might like to—” He interrupted himself with a snarl, a sound that raised the small hairs all over Fraser’s body. “We can be partners without that, you know.” If he spoke any louder, the neighbors would be calling the police.

Trying to comprehend what the man was saying, Fraser probed, “Is that what you want?”

Vecchio threw his hands up. “I didn’t say that. Look, Fraser, it’s just that when it’s important—y’know, doing it?—it’s better if it’s done— Oh, hell.”

“With love?”

Vecchio’s arms fell to his sides. “Yeah.”

At the belligerence in Vecchio’s voice combined with the defeated set of his shoulders, Fraser knew a sudden, unhoped for victory. “Do you think—?” He reconsidered how he might word his next question. “Can you tell the difference between love and, you know—” he forced it out, “—sex?”

Vecchio’s entire demeanor changed. He regarded Fraser warily. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.” Hearing himself, he hurriedly elaborated, “Only a little while, okay?”

“Will you let me show you?” Fraser asked softly.

Vecchio's eyes widened. “ _You_ want to seduce _me_?”

“If I may.” All at once the moment was too intense. Both men turned away; both began to speak; both stopped abruptly. Fraser was the first to hazard a glance. “Please?”

Studying the floor, Vecchio said, “I don’t know, Benny. Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

“Well, neither have I.” Nervousness radiated from Vecchio like cracks in thin ice. His expression grew more troubled. “At least, I _hope_ the something you’ve never done is the same something _I’ve_ never done.”

“Ray.” Fraser gestured at the edge of the bed. “Please sit down.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Vecchio shuffled across the floor to drop heavily onto the spot indicated, the sudden addition of his weight setting the bed bouncing. He bent forward and cradled his head in his palms.

A little frightened himself, more at the prospect of losing the fragile closeness they had regained, Fraser elbowed aside the protective pillow and extended a hand to Vecchio’s bony spine. Heat from his body rose up, warming Fraser’s skin and making it tingle. “Ray.” His friend’s misery distressed him. “Oh, Ray.” Fingers spread wide, he laid his hand flat upon his back, squarely between sharply defined shoulder blades. A shudder vibrated beneath his touch, but Vecchio did not draw away.

For his part, Fraser sat with eyes closed, absorbing the myriad sensations communicated through this simple, glorious connection. A thin layer of silk separated him from warm flesh; yet, through it he could count the beats of Vecchio’s hectic heart, measure the depth and frequency of his respirations, and number the vertebrae contained in the span of his hand.

He wanted more.

Risking everything, he shifted his touch to Vecchio’s shoulder, while slipping his other arm round a too narrow waist. He wasn't the only one to have lost weight, he thought, and Vecchio could not afford to. Tugging without urgency, he whispered, “Ray. Lean back against me.”

As unresisting as a rag doll, Vecchio allowed himself to be pulled into Fraser’s embrace, to have his arms and legs arranged just so and his head guided onto a broad bare shoulder. Resting back against the headboard, Fraser let out a sigh of pure pleasure.

“What’re you going to do?” Vecchio asked.

A smile awakened at the suspicion in Vecchio’s voice. “Nothing. Just this.”

“Yeah?”

“Hm hm.”

“You’re weird, Fraser.”

Fraser hugged him more tightly.

“Weird,” Vecchio repeated with certainty, but now with a trace of humor.

How to explain that “this” was perfection? Fraser, denied physical contact throughout much of his life, genuinely desired nothing more of the moment than to concentrate upon the reality of this man in his arms, his freshly scrubbed cheek slightly bristly against his own, his hands gripping Fraser’s forearms as if his most private riches might suddenly be pillaged. Fraser had never dared hope that he would be allowed this privilege, had never dared imagine how wonderful it would be.

His natural curiosity eventually took over and Fraser turned his face into the skin under the narrow chin. Nudging with cheek and nose, he lazily explored the line of jaw, the long, pulsing carotid, the buttressing neck muscles, and the shallow depression inside the rim of the collarbone.

Concentration furrowed his brow as he considered the combination of scents. Vecchio’s essence was muted but to Fraser effortlessly discernible. Inhaling slowly through flaring nostrils, holding a breath deep in his lungs for a long moment, and exhaling sharply through his mouth—then repeating the process—Fraser was wholly unaware of the effect of his actions on the other man. When satisfied with this input, he began anew the temple-to-throat investigation, this time licking lightly to add taste and texture to his comprehension. A strangled groan gave him pause: Vecchio was clutching his forearms with desperate strength.

“What is it, Ray?”

Vecchio wrenched free and twisted round, his robe swirling open. Planting a knee on either side of Fraser’s hips, he bent forward. Silk softly fell about them as he framed Fraser’s face between his hands. The world seemed to come to a standstill. “This better be what you want, Benny,” Vecchio said hoarsely, “because there ain’t no way we’re going back after this.”

Fraser was given no chance either to concur or decline, for his mouth was taken in a hard, searching kiss. It was demanding, it was tender; it heated his insides, it touched his heart. When Vecchio at last and with obvious reluctance drew away, Fraser gave a yearning sigh. _“Yesss.”_

“Be sure, Benny.” There was a catch in Vecchio’s whisper, a note of fear that should not have been there.

Slowly Fraser opened his eyes. In the other man’s face he saw all the love and devotion that he had craved from Victoria Metcalf, but had been denied. He had not come back for this, had not thought it might await him, had scarcely allowed himself to dream of it—though dreams were not easily tamed. That raw, ragged wound deep in the soul of him healed in an instant. Raymond Vecchio loved him and was, Fraser knew, ready to love him forever. It was there in the worried green eyes and in the faint tremor in the fingers cradling Fraser’s face. Fraser took one of Vecchio’s hands and gently pressed his lips into the palm. He nodded, only that, but Vecchio was transfigured, breaking into a wide, delighted smile.

Charmed, Fraser pulled him down so that he lay flat on his back. He traced the outline of Vecchio’s mouth with thumb and forefinger, then leaned forward, his intention unmistakable. Vecchio met his kiss with a helpless moan, his breath catching as Fraser’s hand slipped beneath the edge of the robe and drifted downward. A moment later he cried out as that hand found and molded cool fingers around the swelling length of him.

Raymond Vecchio was easy to love. The man was sweetly sensual, responsive, and quick to reciprocate every kindness. Without effort, for Vecchio required so little this first time, Fraser took him to the edge, held him there suspended and gasping as the moment stretched, then with utter tenderness, tumbled him over, himself shaken by the man’s unquestioning trust and total abandonment to his care.

Vecchio lay a long moment in Fraser’s arms, dark lashes heavy on his cheeks, a trace of a smile lingering on his mouth. “Fraser,” he sighed, “that was perfect.” When he tried to rise, however, Fraser would not let him. “Come on, let me—”

“Not necessary,” Fraser murmured.

“Why not?” Dopily relaxed, Vecchio did not immediately comprehend. You didn’t—?”

“In fact, I did. Thank you.”

“You’re thanking me?” Vecchio marveled. “I hardly touched—”

“Next time, Ray. It’ll be your turn.”

An affectionately predatory smile revealed Vecchio’s teeth. “Yeah, all right.” Rolling onto his side, he stretched an arm across Fraser’s chest, hooked a knee over a pale thigh, and made himself at home on Fraser’s shoulder. “Give me a few minutes.”

Fraser brushed his cheek against Vecchio’s forehead. “I’ll need more than a few minutes, I’m afraid.” That prompted a sound suspiciously like a chortle. “Ray—”

“Hm?”

“There’s—there’s something you need to know.”

Vecchio tensed. “Ah, Benny.” He tucked his head deeper beneath Fraser’s chin. “About Victoria, right?”

“Yes.”

“Not now.”

“But, Ray, you—”

Vecchio was adamant. “Tomorrow.” With a muffled, non-English curse, he jerked away and threw himself onto his other side, back turned emphatically toward Fraser, a good six inches, as wide a chasm as any Fraser had met, placed between them.

Fraser opened his mouth to protest, then swallowed the words before they could disgrace him. He, who could endure temperatures well below freezing, became keenly aware of the coldness seeping in where Vecchio had lain. Bereft, he reached out a hand. His fingertips drew near enough to Vecchio’s shoulder to sense his much missed heat, but no nearer, respecting the space between them.

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Vecchio exclaimed. He erupted into movement once more, this time surging up and swinging round to stare menacingly down into Fraser’s wide open blue eyes. “This is _my_ bed, Fraser!” He yanked him into his arms. 

Held suffocatingly close, his face cushioned by the curly hair on Vecchio’s chest, Fraser promptly replied, “Understood, Ray.” 

“And if you don’t like it, you can sleep somewhere else.”

“Of course, Ray.”

Vecchio’s arms tightened; Fraser could hardly breathe. If he could stay like this forever, he would find a way to live without breathing. Vecchio snarled, “‘Of course, Ray’ is right! You just _try_ to leave.”

In reply, Fraser snuggled even nearer.

“Ah, Benny,” Vecchio whispered. “It’s scary loving someone this much.”

“Yes,” Fraser said with feeling. “I know.”

Vecchio let out a long, long sigh. Some while later, he relaxed completely, and only then, as Fraser himself tumbled slowly into sleep, wishing he could crystallize this moment and make it his for all time, did he realize what Vecchio must have thought he meant.

* * *

It was one of the longest and sweetest nights Fraser had ever known. When one man awakened, the other stirred as well. A questioning touch, a hushed whisper, and a certain natural process was reinitiated. Fraser, who had slept hard the day before, found himself more conscious than not, even between spells of activity, until the early hours when, thoroughly and happily exhausted, he at last yielded completely to sleep.

As dawn, bitterly chill and sequined with snow, gusted in through the window—Vecchio must have opened it—Fraser realized he was alone. The memory of the other man persisted in every part of him: the weight of his body, his cautious but hungry touch, the warmth he exuded, his breath on Fraser’s throat, the softness of his mouth—

Giving his head a quick shake, Fraser pushed himself up just as the bedroom door swung open. Vecchio paused, balancing a tray on one hand, saw that Fraser was awake, and offered a heart-stoppingly sweet smile. “Good morning.”

It took a moment for Fraser to find his voice. “Good morning.”

“Ready for some coffee?” Vecchio glanced down as a long, inquisitive snout pushed through the door beside him. “Okay, okay. But close it behind you.” As Diefenbaker slinked into the room, Vecchio carried the tray to the bed. He waited for Fraser to move his legs, then placed everything on the semi-smooth surface of the mattress. Handing over a steaming mug of coffee, he said, “You wanted to talk? I've got a couple of hours before I have to be at the station.”

“Yes.” Fraser fitted his hands around the curving ceramic. “Thank you.” Then he hesitated, concentrating on the aroma before taking a careful sip. Both coffee and mug were very hot indeed.

Perched cross legged on the foot of the bed, Vecchio took up his own mug and leaned against the footboard. He said quietly, “It’s something horrible, isn’t it? You’re married; you’ve got a kid; she’ll be here at three-thirty to pick you up.”

While Fraser was often derailed by the workings of Vecchio’s mind, this barrage of questions, as lateral as they were linear, yet gave him pause. “No marriage, Ray; no children. And she won’t be here to pick me up at three-thirty.” And then he simply had to ask, “Why three-thirty, Ray?”

“Huh? Oh–maybe because that’s when Ma used to get me from school. You sure about that, Frase?”

“Very sure.” His next words were spoken without emotion, as though they had been said a million times, as though they no longer had the power to hurt. “Ray, she’s dead.”

This, apparently, was the last thing Vecchio expected to hear. His mouth fell open, his face went completely blank. Recalled to himself, he blurted out, “ _You_ didn’t—?” He gave himself a shake. “No, of course not. You couldn’t.”

“She did.”

“ _She_ killed herself? _Victoria_ killed herself?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe that, Benny.” Then, to his credit, Vecchio stated with genuine feeling, “But if it’s true, if she really did, I’m sorry. I know you loved her.”

Vecchio’s compassion was almost harder to bear than eight months of festering guilt and regret. Fraser cleared his throat. “It happened the morning after we arrived in Yellowknife. We had breakfast; returned to our room. I told her I was going to turn myself in. That made her very angry. She said things I never wanted to hear—though perhaps I already suspected them.” His gaze grew distant, focused on the image in his mind: Victoria, so beautiful, her face flushed with anger, her eyes shining with a kind of madness. “There was a knock. The man on the other side of the door said he was Constable Hudson—and he knew who I was, even though we had registered under false names.” Fraser closed his eyes but he would never shut out that look of betrayal. _“You did it again!” she cried out. “You set me up **again**!”_ The words, in that beautiful voice, still tore at Fraser’s ears. In fact, he would hear them forever. “She thought I had turned her in. She pulled a gun out of her bag; aimed it at me. And then she said, ‘I won’t go back to prison.’ She smiled, Ray.” Fraser stared down unseeing at Vecchio’s bedspread.“‘You’ll have to live with this for the rest of your life,’ she said. And then she shot herself.”

“Benny—”

“Constable Hudson broke down the door. He tried to help me save her. There was nothing we could do.” Vecchio was watching him with immense sympathy. Somehow it did not sting as much as Fraser had always imagined it might. “She was a murderer, Ray. Jolly—it wasn’t a case of self-defense. She used him, lured him to Chicago just so she could pin his death on me. Dief—she meant to kill him. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, he would be dead now. Even her sister—that wasn’t an accident.”

“She killed her own sister?”

“Yes.” The coffee mug had cooled between Fraser’s hands. He was surprised to find it still there. “And you know the most ironic thing, Ray?”

“Other than that you loved her anyway?” Vecchio asked fatalistically.

“I– That’s not—”

“What was ironic, Benny?”

Fraser raised his head, eyes dark with remembered pain. “Constable Hudson had no idea who were we. He was just returning my wallet.”

“Your _wallet_?”

“Yes. Right after I paid for breakfast, Brian Dumont, the local pickpocket, bumped into me. I didn’t even know he’d taken it.”

Vecchio raised his brows. “And what? Was Constable Hudson watching him?”

“No. Mr. Dumont turned himself in. It’s how he maintains his accommodations at the lock-up in Yellowknife. Constable Hudson merely thought we were an unhappy couple whose quarrel had escalated out of control.”

“Only in Canada,” Vecchio murmured. “God. What happened then?”

“I turned myself in. I was allowed to bury Victoria. Constable Hudson supported my version of what had happened. After I was cleared of any involvement in her death, the RCMP placed me on suspension pending investigation of my actions. Since, technically, I was still under suspicion of murder and theft in Chicago—and had been placed on administrative leave here—I could not be accused of abandoning my post when I went away with Victoria.”

“Guess they don’t call it jumping bail in Canada?”

Inwardly Fraser shriveled; outwardly, he displayed no reaction. “Within a week, Lieutenant Welsh notified the RCMP that all charges here had been dropped.”

“He knew?!” Vecchio exclaimed. “That bastard! Of course he knew. And he never told me. That sorry son of a—!” He drew a steadying breath. “So you were released?”

“After a while. There was still the matter of my being in the company of a known felon, of aiding in her flight, as I told you. Charges were considered but it was decided the incident would be less embarrassing to the RCMP if I were simply removed. My leaving was presented as a resignation.”

“You should have called me. I would have gone up there and—”

“No. I had already caused you far too much trouble.”

“Fraser, you idiot—” Vecchio’s lips formed a tight, thin line. “So, you waited until Welsh gave the all-clear. You must’ve suspected that IA was taking awfully long.”

“There were some things I had to do before I could come back—and I, well, I wanted to trust Lieutenant Welsh.”

“And these things that were so important,” Vecchio said tiredly, “what was that, rebuilding your father’s cabin?”

“That was one of them, but by no means the most important.” Setting the mug on the bedside table, Fraser slipped from the covers and on bare feet padded to the dresser. He took up his hat and reached inside the inner band. The folded-over envelope yielded to a sharp tug. Plopping the Stetson on his head, he turned round, took two steps, and held out the envelope. “This was the main reason.”

A shadow of distrust crossed Vecchio’s features. Slowly, he slid a finger beneath the seal, and extricated a slip of paper nearly as wide and long as the envelope itself. “Holy Mother of God.” Vecchio whistled. Complete stupefaction replaced doubt. “Where in the hell did you get this kind of money?”

“It was honestly earned, Ray,” Fraser promised.

“Nothing honest could bring in this kind of money in, what, seven months?! What’d you do, Fraser?”

Fraser set his jaw. “I’d really rather not say.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t? Do you know how much this is!?”

“Well, yes, Ray. Exactly.”

Vecchio gave his head a mutinous shake. “I’m not taking a penny of this until you tell me where it came from.”

There was no reward in winning a bet with one’s self, but this was exactly the reaction Fraser had expected. “You remember Mark Smithbauer? His PR agent once gave me her card and told me to contact her if I ever—” he faltered.

“What? Are we talking prostitution here? _What?_ What’d you do, Fraser?”

Fraser said with disbelief, “You think I could have earned that much money _selling_ myself?”

“Easily.” Hope surfacing in his eyes, Vecchio said, “You mean, you didn’t?”

“Of course I did not.” Even now, after countless rehearsals, Fraser dreaded having to make this confession. He had tried to be a good man, to live according to a rigorous standard. Running off with Victoria has been more than improper. This— “It’s almost as bad,” he whispered.

Gently, Vecchio took hold of Fraser’s hand and pulled him closer. “Just tell me.” He pushed the tray to the far edge of the bed.

Slowly subsiding onto the mattress beside Vecchio, reassured by that firm grip, Fraser spoke through clenched teeth. “I worked ... as a photographer's model.”

Vecchio just stared at him. “I didn’t hear that. Did I? Did you really say _model_?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“That—that must’ve been a lot of posing, Benny. And after you gave—what was her name, Dawn?—ten percent, you still had—?”

“Twenty. I gave her twenty percent.”

Vecchio goggled at him. “And you had this much left over?”

Fidgeting, Fraser nodded. “More, actually. I used a portion of it toward taxes and to rebuild the cabin.” Suddenly worried, he said, “It is enough, Ray, isn’t it?”

Vecchio gave a sharp cough of laughter. “It’s too much, you moron.”

“It couldn’t possibly be too much,” Fraser said bitterly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t have it for you in time to save your family home. I intended to pay off your mortgage.”

“Fraser—” Vecchio stopped, moderated his tone of voice, then concluded, “It’s enough.” He tapped the edge of the check against their joined hands. “You could’ve mailed it.”

“I had to be certain that you got it.”

“So—You came back _just_ to give me this?” he asked. “Then what about what happened last night?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me back,” Fraser admitted. “When you threw snowballs at me, I expected bullets.”

“ _Bullets!_ Jeez, Fraser, I would never—!”

“No. But you would have been justified if you had. I won’t deny that Victoria was important to me. I wanted to save her. When she asked me to go with her, I thought there might be some chance of it.”

Only that, too, had been part of her vengeance, as she had so spitefully informed him that morning in Yellowknife: _“I only told you to come with me because I knew you would—and because coming with me would ruin everything you touched. Including your friend and your beloved job—because you chose me over them.”_

“But she hated me much more than she ever loved me,” Fraser said, a little surprised to find that the pain had actually ebbed over eight months. “I had promised to help her, Ray, and seeing her safely to Yellowknife, out of reach of the Americans, was the only way I could honor that promise.”

“Yeah, well, that was some promise, Fraser,” Vecchio observed neutrally.

“I should have let her go ten years ago. You would have been spared everything had I let her go then.”

“Maybe.” Vecchio gulped a mouthful of coffee. “But I probably would never have met you, too.” He set the check on Fraser’s knee. “This’ll be enough to start our business.” A snort of pure wonder punctuated his words. “Hell, this is enough to help everyone in the family—even that rat Tony.”

A massive weight seemed to evaporate off Fraser’s shoulders. “Whatever you want, Ray.”

Half-standing, Vecchio moved the tray and their mugs to the bedside table. Then he turned toward Fraser and touched his cheek. He drew a fingertip down to his mouth and smiled with luminous warmth when Fraser kissed it. “I’m sorry about those snowballs, you know?” Lifting the hat from Fraser’s head and with a flick of the wrist tossing it back onto the dresser, he leaned forward and purposefully crowded him downward into the pillows. Fraser let his legs fall apart, sighing under his breath as Vecchio came to lie between them. “I was afraid I’d never see you again, and when I saw you in the park, I—”

Holding Vecchio’s head, his close cropped hair baby-soft against his palms, Fraser silenced him with a kiss. He wanted to erase the hurt of abandonment, to make Vecchio forget that they had not shared this before last night, to convince him that no matter what had gone before, this had always been fated for them. Canting his hips, he pushed up against the firming heat tangible through Vecchio’s robe. Vecchio echoed the movement, sliding a hand down a tautly muscled flank. Their kiss deepened as their bodies found a harder, stronger rhythm.

A disgusted, lupine groan emanated from underneath the bed.

Tearing his lips away, Fraser said tartly, “You know where the door is.” Toenails tapped across the uncarpeted stretches of parquet floor; the doorknob squeaked; hinges creaked. Seconds later, the latch bolt snugged into the strike plate with a solid _click_.

Before Fraser could take up where he had left off, Vecchio breathlessly demanded, “All that posing you did: photos or catwalk?”

Not certain what kind of “catwalk” Vecchio was referring to, nor at this moment fit for instruction, Fraser replied abstractedly, “Photos.”

“Where?”

Fraser dragged him down for another long, seeking kiss, one hand beneath Vecchio’s robe, moving between their bodies to apply a calloused caress to hardening flesh that quickly filled his palm. He raked the fingers of his other hand down Vecchio’s chest and belly, the man arching up uncontrollably at his touch. He reached round to grasp a compactly muscled buttock and Vecchio let out an incoherent cry, the sound muffled once more by Fraser’s mouth. Holding him captive, Fraser bucked smoothly up against him. Breaking for air, he asked, “Where what, Ray?”

“Where what?” Vecchio repeated mindlessly. “Oh. _Where._ Magazines or what?” Pushing down with a strength belied by his litheness, Vecchio more than ably matched Fraser’s driving motions.

“Ray—” He couldn't think anymore as the blood left his head to serve a more immediate need. “Ah— Oh, Ray.” All at once Fraser was no longer in command, Vecchio setting their pace with a singlemindedness that called to a part of Fraser which though long denied, answered immediately and with great fervor. A pleasure as riveting as pain seared through him, that maddening friction demanding the attention of every muscle and nerve ending in his body. Seconds later, Fraser felt himself disintegrate. Vecchio’s curse, small and helpless, rasped inside his ear, and he felt his partner reach flashpoint at almost the same instant. It was this, Fraser realized hazily, this conjoining of bodies and hearts in an instant of profound intimacy and love, that he had never experienced with Victoria. And it was this sharing, not just the use of a warm, willing, beautiful body, that he had always really wanted.

As the last spasm subsided to the occasional, defiant twitch, Vecchio lowered himself onto Fraser’s chest and rested his head on the same pillow, his breath warmly gusting against Fraser’s throat.

“Where, Fraser?” Vecchio whispered.

Overtaken by a simple, unbounded joy, Fraser held the other man until he emitted a wordless protest. “MacLean’s,” he said, lightly tracing the inside curve of Vecchio’s ear with the tip of his tongue. “British GQ, Details, British Esquire, Pla—” His usually strong sense of self-preservation, temporarily supplanted by an equally primal need, was perilously slow in curbing his response.

Vecchio stiffened. “What did you say?”

“MacLean’s, British—”

“No. Just the last one. Pla— what?”

Hoping to forestall an outburst of Vecchian proportions, Fraser locked his forearms across the other man’s lower back and carefully enunciated, “Playgirl.”

“Playgirl,” Vecchio hissed. “ _That_ Playgirl?”

An unbroken stallion would have been easier to contain. Rather than cause them both damage, Fraser unclasped his wrists. Vecchio immediately reared up above him. Scorched by the outrage in the other man’s eyes, Fraser asked diffidently, “Is there another?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.” Recrimination with a splash of horror comprised the full palette of Vecchio’s expression. “Fraser, you didn’t!?”

“Uh, yes, Ray, I did.”

“Everything? Did you show everything?”

Fraser’s hair haloed around his head as it described a noncommittal semi-circular motion. “Well, mostly, yes.”

“Fraser,” Vecchio said with awful emphasis, “ _Francesca_ buys that trash.” As this registered in Fraser’s suddenly hunted expression, Vecchio elaborated, “Just tell me, _please_ , tell me you didn’t—” He moved his fist in an up-and-down pumping motion.

Scandalized, Fraser said, “Good Lord, Ray, no, of course not!”

“Oh, Fraser.” Vecchio let his face fall back into the pillow.

Fraser was mortified. “Ray, I’m sorry. It was the first time in my life that I’ve worked only for money.” He could not bring himself, quite, to lay the blame for this transgression at Vecchio’s feet, even if he had, ultimately, taken on such unseemly occupation solely for him. Neither the amount of the compensation nor his woeful confession stood in his favor at this time. But there was one thing—

“Ray,” he announced optimistically, “I added a washroom with a tub and a sink and a toilet to the cabin.”

Hope made Fraser hold his breath. The other man was listening to him: He could feel his attentiveness at their every point of contact. “With its own stove to keep the room warm.”

Vecchio raised his head, and despite the reaction of his body, his face was set and unforgiving. “So when does it come out? The Playgirl you’re featured in?”

“I’m hardly ‘featured’ in it, Ray,” Fraser equivocated. Vecchio clearly did not believe him. He surrendered. “In a month or two.”

“A month or two.” Each word was a death knell. Forcing himself to meet that forbidding stare, Fraser considered groveling. Vecchio broke the terrible silence before he could begin. “I’ll want ten copies,” he said. “And you get to pay.”

“Right.” Fraser would have agreed to anything. But before anything else might occur to him, Fraser dumped Vecchio onto the mattress and lurched up to loom over him. He proceeded to apply balming kisses to the other man’s brow, nose, and mouth.

A short while later, Vecchio mused, “A washroom?” His face lit more brightly at this prospect than it had at the six-digit number on the check. “Really?”

Fraser worshiped each corner of his smile with a reverent thoroughness. “Really.”

Beaming beatifically, Vecchio declared, “Cooool!”

_Epilogue_

The office was tiny, located on the fourth floor of a rambling, renovated Victorian mansion. A desk, two chairs (one behind the desk, the other in front), a filing cabinet, and a grimy window were all that it contained. The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet temporarily took up precious floor space, measuring nearly its entire length like a tongue extended for inspection, blocking the other chair.

Sprawled in front of the desk was Fraser’s wolf, Diefenbaker. Fraser himself crouched beside the hanging-folder-filled bottom drawer, organizing newly labeled and color-coded files. The ghost of his father, Robert Fraser, leaned against the frame of the window.

“Yes, Dad,” Fraser said with some irritation, “I know that the Inuit would probably file ‘Pullman’ before ‘Pindello.’ But that doesn’t really apply here, now does it?”

“Hm,” his father sniffed. “You should have married a woman, son. They’re usually quite exceptional at this sort of task. Although your mother—”

“Would have made you do your own filing. Then again, she might have doubted your orthography.” A whisper of sound signaled the opening of the door. Fraser craned round to see who it was, a pre-emptive smile on his face, as his partner was due back at any moment.

“Wolves know orthography?” It was Harding Welsh, looking doubtful.

Casting a warning glance at his father, Fraser pushed himself up and off his haunches. He thrust out a hand. “Hello, lieutenant.”

“Consta—” Welsh caught himself. “Fraser. The wolf lending a paw with the paperwork?”

“Well, he offered,” Fraser replied ingenuously. Opening and closing his thumb and forefinger, he said, “But he lacks the appropriate digits.”

“Well, yes.” Welsh took his hand in a friendly grasp. “So, how’s it going?”

The door opened once more and Raymond Vecchio squeezed into the tight space in front of the desk beside the wolf. “Hey, lieutenant! Good to see you!”

“Vecchio. Just asked your partner here how things’re going for you.”

With Vecchio at hand, Fraser unthinkingly relaxed. He replied for them. “We are doing great. Thank you for the referrals, sir.”

Welsh nodded, looking pleased and a little modest. “Makes us both look good.”

“What can we do for you, lieutenant?” Vecchio asked. Glancing down, he said coolly, “Haven’t you finished that filing yet, Dief?”

The wolf groaned and dropped its head between its paws. Vecchio nudged a hindquarter with the toe of his shoe. “Yeah, okay. But I expect you to know the alphabet frontwards and backwards by the end of the month, right?”

“Hm, I actually have a—” Welsh paused, a series of uninterpretable tics rippling across his craggy features. “A favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Vecchio said. “What—?”

“Of Fraser.”

Fraser exchanged a quick glance with Vecchio, who answered with a barely perceptible tip of the head. “Sir?”

“This.” Popping open the top buttons of his long coat, Welsh reached inside and drew out a rolled-up tube held by a rubber band. “My niece found out that I know you, and—”

Vecchio began to smile. “May I see that, sir?”

“Now, Ray—”

“Surely you know about this, Vecchio.” With some alarm, Welsh said to Fraser. “You _have_ shown this to him, haven’t you?”

Adroitly working the rubber band off, Vecchio gave a low hum of approval. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen this.” He held the centerfold fully opened between his hands. “Was a cold day, eh, Frase?” he remarked softly.

Fraser’s eyes rolled shut. “Sir, if it’s for your niece, I really can’t—”

“She’s, what, in her thirties now?” Vecchio pointed out.

“Ray!”

“It’s true, Consta—Fraser. Would you mind? She’d love to have it autographed. Just don’t sign it on anything, um—”

“Important.” Vecchio dangled the full-length photo of a very naked and very familiar individual in front of Fraser, grinning evilly, and waiting with unlikely patience until it was snatched from his hand.

Fraser’s fingers were numb as he laid the centerfold on the desk. From behind him his father remarked, “A woman wouldn’t boast about your pec—” For a horrible instant Fraser thought he might faint. “—cadilloes like that.”

“Dad!” he whispered, anguished.

“What was that?” Welsh asked.

“He mutters to himself a lot,” Vecchio said helpfully. “C’mon, Frase, sign that thing so the lieutenant can get back to work.”

Cowlick almost brushing the surface of the desk, Fraser scrawled his name across a pale thigh, remembering at the last second not to cross the t in Benton with his usual flourish. Afterward, he set the pen down and meticulously rolled the sheet into a tight tube. “Here you go, sir. Please apologize to your niece for me.”

Welsh had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. “Thanks. And, um, about what happened—”

“It’s all right, sir,” Fraser said sincerely. “I did—I do—understand.”

Fraser had often noted that absolution was for some people more difficult to stomach than outright condemnation. He witnessed something of this in Welsh now. Welsh said gravely, “I’m glad things are working out for you.” He glanced over to encompass Vecchio in his statement. “For both of you.”

“Thanks. And, hey, like Frase said,” Vecchio said, clapping a hand on Welsh’s shoulder, “we appreciate the referrals.”

“Sure.” Welsh reached for the door. “Nice place, Vecchio. I see you’ve retained your lack of decorating sense.”

“Yeah, and your momma,” Vecchio returned without animosity. He ushered him into the corridor. “See ya, lieutenant!” As Welsh’s footsteps receded into the distance, Vecchio stepped back into the office. Turning round, he was met by Fraser, who backed him into the door. It clicked shut under their combined weight. “Hey! What’s up?”

“Perhaps I should ask you that.”

“Me? Nothing’s up. Yet. But we're at work. And, by the way, I thought you handled that real well.” Vecchio shifted from one foot to the other, Fraser’s stony expression seeming to cause him some considerable distress—as Fraser fully intended.

“What,” Fraser asked reprovingly, “did I handle so well?”

“Well, you know, seeing Welsh. First time since last year, um, like that.”

“And what,” Fraser asked silkily, “was there to handle?”

Vecchio attempted a smile. Like a mirage, under closer scrutiny, it disappeared. “Some people—not you, of course—might have held a grudge.”

“You think I don’t hold grudges?”

“No. Uh uh. Not you.”

“Lieutenant Welsh,” Fraser stated with precision, “does not have a niece.”

“Go on! ‘Course he does!” Vecchio said bluffly. “Why would you say that?”

Fraser bent even closer, his voice seductively low. “He mentioned it once in a letter. About his being an only child.” He allowed this to sink in. “It follows: No nieces; no nephews.”

Vecchio gave a quick, all-over shrug. “Maybe he meant his cousin—you know, once or twice removed.”

“No. You put him up to that.” Fraser sent a sharp, searching look round the room behind him. What he saw—or did not see—reassured him.

Nervously following his gaze, Vecchio began, “That’s crazy! Why would I—?” He stilled completely as Fraser planted a hand on either side of his head. “Hey, Frase—!”

Vecchio’s objections were drowned by the dark warmth of Fraser’s mouth. The kiss was overwhelming, a give-ground-or-suffer-the-consequences kind of kiss. Placing a hand against Fraser’s chest, Vecchio made a soft sound in the depths of his throat. It turned to a high-pitched, alarmed inquiry when one of Fraser’s hands snapped open Vecchio’s belt then pushed between Vecchio’s suddenly sucked-in belly and the fabric of his cotton briefs. Vecchio whipped his head to one side. “Fraser! What are you—?” But his mouth was immediately recaptured while Fraser’s other hand swept across the plain of his torso like a prairie fire, igniting sternum, ribs, and abdomen with the preternatural heat of his touch.

Then Fraser began to graze downward. “Oh, God,” Vecchio moaned. Fraser’s mouth was at his throat, leaving tiny visible welts. The shirt yielded, each nipple roughly attended to; then the trousers were pushed aside and sturdy cotton briefs were shoved to Vecchio’s thighs, there to remain stretched to the limit of their elasticity as Fraser knelt at his feet. Vecchio’s knees buckled as Fraser engulfed him; he was held upright by one hand braced against his chest.

As Fraser began to suckle, Vecchio’s protests gradually lessened, changing to low, moaning exhalations. His hands drifted to Fraser’s head, fingers curling lightly in his hair, riding Fraser’s movements. “Love you,” Vecchio breathed. “Oh, God, I love you, Benny.” And then he cried out, a broken, helpless sound that under other circumstances Fraser might have found alarming.

A moment later, Fraser rose, thoughtfully licking his lips. He was drawn into a crushing embrace. “What the heck,” Vecchio murmured, “brought that on?”

“You,” Fraser replied, his voice richly resonant. “The way you were looking at that picture—even in front of Lieutenant Welsh.” He helped Vecchio undo his belt and trousers.

“Good picture,” Vecchio remarked, shakily working the fabric off Fraser’s hips. “Almost as good as the original.” He welcomed Fraser into his arms, holding him close as Fraser, hard and hot and very needful, began to move.

“Even though it was cold that day?” Fraser directed his breath into Vecchio’s ear; he shuddered violently.

“Only about an inch and a half colder than usual,” Vecchio noted fairly.

“And then Fraser was silenced by the other man’s kiss, goading him, cherishing him, bringing him home as he lost himself in Vecchio’s warmth. It was, indeed, better when done with love.

Afterward, with thighs trembling and his knees threatening to fold, Fraser depended on his partner to keep him on his feet while he slowly recovered. “Pretty cold in _here_ ,” he mumbled a little perplexedly. They looked over at the window, frowning in unison when they saw that the sash had been pushed up, and March snowflakes were pinwheeling inside.

“Dief?” Vecchio ventured.

“Dief,” Fraser concurred.

They restored their clothing to a semblance of propriety before stepping across the room to peer out. Diefenbaker raised his head and regarded them with some disdain.

“Thought so. You can come in now,” Fraser said. “We’re decent.”

“Time to go home anyway.” There was a smugness in Vecchio’s voice which he made no effort to conceal. “And you might as well stop that thing with the soulful wolfy eyes. You know you’d rather be out there.” They edged back as Diefenbaker came into the room. Fraser closed the window and turned the latch.

Vecchio raised his brows meaningfully. “Thought you said we couldn’t do that at work.”

“You’re thinking of that time we— No, actually I said we should not engage in such activity during work hours. It was five-oh-two when I—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s go home. I’m hungry enough to eat a moose.”

“I doubt it.” Fraser grinned. “Besides, we’re going over to your sister’s place tonight, remember?”

Vecchio paused at the door. Then, very deliberately, he walked back to the desk, pulled open the center drawer, retrieved the felt-tipped marking pen, and returned to Fraser’s side. “Then you’re going to need this.”

As Fraser stared down at the pen in his hand, a terrible understanding washed over him. “No,” he protested feebly. But he was alone in the office, the door standing ajar in front of him. “Ray!”

He caught up with Vecchio on the second floor.

“Ray, couldn’t we—?”

“No, we couldn’t.”

“But—”

“It’s okay, Benny. If they want to compare the photo to the original, I promise to say no.” He cackled to himself and strode on ahead, seemingly unaware that Fraser had remained rooted to the spot, immobilized by a singular dread. _That_ picture and Francesca—

Squaring his shoulders and raising his chin, Fraser reflected on the fact that vengeance could take many, many forms.

On the landing below, Vecchio stopped and swung round. He winked. With a jaunty jerk of the head, he smilingly invited Fraser to rejoin him. “C’mon, Benny. You can handle this.”

So long as retribution bore the face and form of Raymond Vecchio, Fraser decided, he would gladly suffer it for the remainder of his life. With a rueful nod, he hurried to catch up.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Written under the pseud Ellis Ward


End file.
